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A   HAND-BOOK 


OF 


ENGLISH  LITERATURE 


INTENDED    FOR   THE 

USE    OF    HIGH    SCHOOLS, 

AS   WELL    AS 

A  COMPANION  AND  GUIDE  FOR  PRIVATE  STUDENTS, 
AND  FOR  GENERAL  READERS. 


BY 


FRANCIS   H.  UNDERWOOD,  A.  M. 


British   Authors. 


BOSTON: 

LEE    AND     S  IfJp:?>A:H^'.Or^;^i  5 
NEW   YORK: 
CHARLES  T.  DILLINGHAM. 
1888. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Con|?ress,  in  the  year  1871, 

By    lee    and    SHEPARD, 

In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


University  Press:  John  Wilson  &  Son, 
Cambridge. 


XT 


A*'^ 


,«'•■ 


Electrotyped  at  the  Boston  Stereotype  Foundry, 
No.  19  Spring  Lane. 


HENRY   S  WASHBURN,  Esq,         Rev.  S.  K.  LOTHROP,  D.  D., 
Rev.  C.  C.  SHACKFORD,  LYMAN   MASON,  Esq, 

Dr.  JOHN   P.  REYNOLDS.  Hon.  GEORGE   H.  MONROK 

MEMBERS    OF    THE   SPECIAL   COMMITTEE   OF   THE    BOSTON 

SCHOOL   BOARD    ON   THE   HIGH   SCHOOL 

EDUCATION   OF   BOYS, 


ibis  moxk 


IS,  WITH   RESPECT    AND    AFFECTION, 


INSCRIBED. 


4:2 


9355 


PREFACE 


The  author  of  this  work,  having  been  appointed  to  pre- 
pare a  course  of  reading  in  Enghsh  Literature  for  the  Latin 
School  in  Boston,  was  induced,  after  the  adoption  of  the 
plan,  to  enlarge  and  perfect  it,  in  order  to  supply  an 
acknowledged  want  in  popular  education. 

It  is  not  expected  that  this,  or  any  compilation,  no  matter 
how  full  and  exhaustive,  will  be  sufficient  for  the  thorough 
student.  It  is  undoubtedly  wise,  as  a  rule,  to  insist  upon 
studying  authors  in  their  complete  works ;  beyond  question 
this  is  the  only  way  to  gain  an  adequate  notion  of  an  author's 
power  and  of  his  command  of  English  ;  and  no  one  knows 
so  well  as  the  perplexed  compiler  how  hard  it  is,  if  he  would 
keep  within  the  proper  limits,  to  do  any  justice  to  the  authors 
whose  essays  and  poems  he  must  mutilate,  as  mineralogists 
crack  fossils  or  ^eodes^  for  specimens. 

The  writer  well  remembers  the  few  and  meagi'e  collections 
of  books  in  his  native  town.  Excepting  Scripture  commen- 
taries, hymn  books,  and  a  few  religious  biographies,  not  always 
inviting  to  children  of  ardent  temperament,  the  most  fascinat- 
ing volumes  accessible  were  ''  RoUin's  Ancient  History  "  and 
"  Riley's  Narrative."  It  must  be  admitted,  however,  that 
"  Thaddeus  of  Warsaw,"  and  a  few  other  contraband  ro- 
mances, stowed  away  in  the  haymow  for  furtive  reading  at 
odd  intervals  on  rainy  days,  furnished  ideal  pictures  for  the 
boyish  imagination  to  dwell  upon.     It  is  with  something  like 


VI  PREFACE. 

a  pang  that  he  reflects  now,  what  a  priceless  treasure  in 
those  his  best  days  even  so  imperfect  a  collection  as  this 
Hand-Book  would  have  been. 

When  the  imperative  wants  of  schools  and  the  vast  num- 
bers of  youth  without  the  means  of  literary  culture,  even 
of  the  most  elementary  sort,  are  considered,  it  must  be  allowed 
that  a  judicious  compilation,  with  the  necessary  adjuncts, 
will  be  a  public  benefit.  At  all  events  it  will  be  doing  much, 
if  by  means  of  the  Hand-Book  the  student  is  directed  to  the 
ampler  sources  from  which  he  can  derive  amusement  for  his 
leisure  hours,  and  acquires  a  habit  that  will  illuminate  and 
ennoble  his  whole  life. 

The  numerous  reading  books  in  use,  though  containing 
many  of  the  best  passages  from  the  best  authors,  have  been 
designed  mainly  to  serve  as  exercises  in  elocution,  and,  when 
considered  as  aids  to  literary  culture,  are  fragmentary  and 
inadequate. 

But  the  Hand-Book  does  not  aim  at  the  completeness  of 
an  encyclopaedia  ;  the  selections  have  been  made  for  the 
most  part  from  authors  in  whom  scholars,  through  all  the 
changes  of  literary  fashion,  have  preserved  a  living  interest. 
The  author  has  not  sought,  like  another  Old  Mortality^  to 
deepen  and  make  legible  anew  the  inscriptions  which  Time 
has  surely  begun  to  obliterate.  In  looking  through  the  long 
list  of  authors  once  famous,  the  eye  falls  upon  many  that  are 
now  mere  names  ;  and  to  continue  making  selections  from 
the  works  of  such  is  like  lumbering  a  house  with  decrepit 
and  useless  furniture,  to  the  exclusion  of  that  which  is  taste- 
ful and  adapted  to  modern  wants.  Still  it  is  believed  that 
nothing  of  real  worth  to  the  reader  of  to-day  has  been 
rejected  on  account  of  its  antique  garb  ;  the  error  is  more 
likely  to  be  in  the  other  direction  ;  for,  by  the  power  of 
association,  age  gives  all  the  racier  flavor  and  the  more 
enduring  charm  to  any  work  of  genius.  An  examination  of 
the  index  will  show,  after  due  allowance  is  made  for  difl^er- 
ences  of  taste,  that  few,  if  any,  authors  have  been  omitted 


PREFACE.  yil 

whom  the  concurring  judgment  of  the  literary  world  has 
pronounced  classic. 

By  exercising  a  careful  discrimination  as  to  the  number  of 
authors  cited,  it  is  possible  to  give  far  more  liberal  and 
satisfactory  specimens  from  those  whose  preeminence  is 
unquestioned. 

Above  all,  the  Hand-Book  is  intended  to  be  readable,  to 
make  the  introduction  to  our  noble  literature  attractive,  and  to 
show  that  works  of  acknowledged  authority  are  none  the  less 
entertaining,  even  to  the  casual  reader,  from  being  models 
of  style  and  treasuries  of  thought. 

The  extracts  are  arranged  in  chronological  order,  so  as  to 
show  the  development  of  the  language  ;  but  it  will  be  found 
convenient  in  schools,  in  the  first  reading,  to  follow  an  order 
similar  to  that  marked  out  in  the  original  plan  for  the  Latin 
School,  mentioned  in  the  early  pages  of  this  volume :  since 
few  pupils  would  be  able  to  contend  with  the  diflSculties  of 
obsolete  phraseology  and  masculine  thought  at  the  outset. 
But  when  the  selections  are  read  a  second  time,  it  should  be 
in  the  order  in  which  they  are  printed. 

In  regard  to  this  order  of  reading  just  mentioned,  it  will  be 
observed  that  a  few  works  are  prescribed  which  are  not 
included  in  this  volume.  The  reason  will  commend  itself  to 
all  judicious  teachers.  While  we  must  be  content,  in  the 
majority  of  cases,  to  give  only  selections  from  an  author,  often 
too  brief,  there  are  some  works  that  will  not  bear  any 
division,  but  must  be  read  entire,  if  at  all.  For  instance,  to 
give  a  single  scene,  or  even  an  act,  from  one  of  Shakespeare's 
plays,  would  be  merely  tantalizing ;  far  better  to  omit  alto- 
gether, unless  a  whole  play  could  be  presented.  And  any 
single  play  would  be  but  a  partial  expression  of  his  genius. 
It  is  strongly  recommended  that  every  High  School  should 
be  furnished  with  a  sufficient  number  of  copies  of  Shakespeare 
to  allow  of  a  systematic  reading  of  several  of  his  plays  ;  also 
with  Scott's  "  Lady  of  the  Lake,"  and  Goldsmith's  '"  Vicar 
of  Wakefield." 


Vm  PREFACE. 

A  few  other  authors,  of  whom  Pope,  Cowper,  Tennyson, 
and  Macaulay  may  be  cited  as  instances,  deserve  more  atten- 
tion than  the  limits  of  the  Hand-Book  allow  ;  and  the  addi- 
tion of  their  works  to  the  school  library  would  be  highly 
desirable. 

A  condensed  account  of  the  growth  of  the  language,  and 
of  the  character  and  influence  of  its  various  elements,  is 
presented,  with  which,  it  is  hoped,  aided  by  the  exposition  of 
the  instructor,  every  pupil  will  become  familiar. 

A  biographical  notice,  brouglit  by  necessity  into  narrow 
limits,  is  prefixed  to  the  specimens  of  each  author. 

For  explanatory  notes  which  might  often  be  of  signal 
service,  but  would  fatally  cumber  the  book,  the  reader  must 
be  referred  to  the  full  editions  in  the  libraries.  Glossarial 
references,  however,  are  printed  upon  the  margin  of  the 
extracts  from  Chaucer  and  Burns,  and  in  a  few  other 
instances.  The  translations  of  a  few  Latin  quotations  will 
be  found  in  an  appendix  at  the  end  of  the  volume. 

If  students  derive  as  much  pleasure  in  reading  over  this 
collection  as  the  author  has  enjoyed  in  preparing  it,  they  will 
be  amply  repaid. 

The  author  acknowledges  his  indebtedness  to  Trench  "  On 
the  Study  of  Words,"  Professor  Scheie  de  Vere's  *'  Studies 
in  English,"  White's  "  Words  and  their  Uses,"  Marsh's 
"  Lectures  on  the  English  Language,"  Chambers's  ''  Cyclo- 
paedia of  English  Literature,"  and  Morley's  "Tables  of 
English  Literature."  He  would  also  express  his  gi'atitude 
to  Robert  Carter,  Esq.,  Editor  of  "  Appleton's  Journal,"  to 
George  W.  Minns,  Esq.,  and  other  Masters  of  the  Latin  and 
English  High  Schools  for  valuable  suggestions  during  the 
progress  x)f  this  work, 

A  second  volume,  containing  extracts  from  the  works  of 
American  authors,  made  on  a  somewhat  more  liberal  scale, 
is  nearly  ready,  and  will  be  issued  uniform  in  style  with 
this. 

Boston,  April  5,  1871. 


HISTORICAL   INTRODUCTION. 


The  language  of  a  nation,  like  the  prevailing  features,  stature,  and 
other  traits  of  the  people,  is  a  part  of  its  history,  and  its  elements 
are  derived  from  the  speech  of  older  races  which  have  combined  to 
form  the  new  type.  Most  of  the  existing  languages  of  Europe  are 
composite,  and  each  one  corresponds  in  close  analogy  to  the  union 
of  the  races  or  tribes  whose  blended  traits  have  become  the  charac- 
teristics of  the  modern  nation. 

Our  inquiries  will  not  go  back  farther  than  the  Christian  era ;  to 
trace  the  origin  of  words  back  to  the  Sanskrit  through  Asiatic  colo- 
nization is  a  matter  of  great  difficulty  and  uncertainty,  and  does 
not  belong  to  a  treatise  so  elementary  as  this.  That  the  Latin  and 
Greek  languages  appear  to  us  as  mainly  original  and  uncompounded 
is  due  to  the  fact  that  the  migrations  that  took  place  while  these 
tongues  were  forming  were  prior  to  any  authentic  history.  After 
the  fall  of  the  Roman  empire,  when  each  European  tribe  was  left 
to  establish  its  own  government,  their  several  original  languages, 
more  or  less  impregnated  by  the  Latin  of  their  former  masters,  be- 
gan to  receive  their  natural  and  diverse  development.  The  laws 
and  customs  of  each  people,  their  cultivation  of  the  arts  of  war  or 
peace,  their  agricultural  or  maritime  pursuits,  their  fertile  plains  or 
mountain  fastnesses,  their  easy  obedience  to  rulers  or  their  fierce 
contests  for  independence,  their  local  attachments  or  their  roving, 
marauding  disposition,  —  all  these  native  tendencies  and  social  and 
political  influences  were  soon  evident  as  well  in  their  speech  as  in 
their  character.     And,  if  we  did  not  know  the  speech  of  a  single 

ix 


X  HISTORICAL  INTRODUCTION. 

modern  European  nation,  we  could,  upon  the  basis  of  its  original 
stock  of  words,  with  a  knowledge  of  its  wars  offensive  and  defen- 
sive, its  migrations  and  governmental  changes,  its  wealth,  customs, 
and  general  cultivation,  predict  with  a  good  degree  of  certainty  the 
prevaihng  character  of  its  language  and  literature. 

French,  Spanish,  and  Italian  are  but  three  slightly- varying  corrup- 
tions of  Latin.  The  last  is  nearest  to  its  original,  with  only  slight 
additions  by  the  barbarian  conquerors  of  Italy.  French,  which  is 
in  one  sense  only  a  lingo^  is  for  the  most  part  only  Latin  debased 
by  old  Gallic  and  later  Norman  pronunciation.  Spanish  is  the 
same  noble  tongue  corrupted  by  an  admixture  of  Arabic  and  by  the 
indistinct  articulation  that  prevails  among  the  indolent  dwellers  in 
hot  climates.  People  using  northern  languages,  that  bristle  with 
sharp  consonants  and  are  choked  with  guttural  sounds,  would  never 
have  rolled  "  Caesar  Augustus  "  under  lazy  tongues  until  it  came  out 
limp  and  helpless  as  "  Saragossa." 

For  our  present  purpose  we  need  not  go  back  farther  than  the  in- 
vasion of  Britain  by  the  Romans ;  for  subsequent  poHtical  events 
neutralized  and  finally  destroyed  the  influence  of  the  Picts  and  Celts, 
and  penned  up  in  Wales  or  drove  to  the  coast  of  Cornwall  nearly 
all  that  remains  of  the  original  British  tongue.  The  Roman  occu- 
pation, though  it  covered  a  long  period,  does  not  appear  to  have 
made  a  very  deep  or  lasting  impression  upon  the  customs  or  the 
language  of  the  aborigines.  The  remains  of  their  roads,  their 
camps  {castra),  and  vestiges  of  their  law  can  still  be  seen ;  but  in 
our  language  the  only  trace  of  the  first  is  in  the  name  for  distance, 
mile,  and  in  compounds  of  stratum^  as  in  Stratford;  the  second 
lives  in  the  terminations  cester  and  caster,  and  in  the  abridged  form 
of  coionia,  as  in  Lincoln;  and  the  last  is  represented  by  debt  —  a 
word  that  many  a  poor  Briton  probably  learned  to  his  cost  in  the 
courts.  This,  of  course,  is  not  intended  as  an  exact  statement ; 
very  many  Latin  words  were  probably  used  before  the  Romans 
abandoned  the  island  which  were  afterwards  forgotten  during  the 
long  domination  of  other  races.  It  is  accurate  enough  to  say  that 
the  Latin  elements  of  our  language  did  not  come  in  through  the 


HISTORICAL   INTRODUCTION.  Xl 

conquest,  but  have  been  introduced  through  the  French,  or  have 
been  transferred  by  scholars  and  naturalized  by  use. 

A  history  of  the  invasions  of  the  next  following  centuries  is  a 
history  of  the  foundation  of  the  language.  It  will  not  be  necessary, 
even  if  it  were  possible,  to  give  more  than  the  most  general  account 
of  these  movements  ;  for  piratical  excursions  were  as  frequent  then 
as  rural  picnics  are  now,  and  every  sailor  considered  getting  booty 
to  be  the  original  purpose  and  chief  end  of  navigation.  As  has 
been  already  stated,  the  primitive  British  or  Celtic  element  Was 
driven  out,  and  it  cannot  be  proved  that  any  part  of  its  vocabulary 
remains,  except  in  the  Erse  or  Irish,  Gaehc  or  Highland  Scotch, 
and  Cymric  or  Welsh,  branches  (if  they  are  branches)  of  the  old 
Celtic  speech.  A  large  proportion  of  the  invasions  came  from  the 
islands  and  coasts  of  the  North  Sea  and  the  Baltic.  In  Fries- 
land,  where  the  ancient  language  has  not  been  wholly  supplanted  by 
the  modern  Dutch,  the  English-speaking  traveller  understands  many 
simple  phrases,  and  has  but  little  difficulty  in  making  his  wants 
known.  But  whatever  were  the  relative  proportions  of  the  Danes, 
•Jutes,  Angles,  Frisians,  and  Saxons  that  occupied  the  British  Is- 
lands, the  warring  elements  were  after  a  time  composed  under  the 
•ru4e  of  Saxon  kings,  the  whole  population  was  converted  to  Chris- 
tianity, and  their  diiferent  dialects  blended  into  Anglo-Saxon.  The 
Danish  invasions  for  the  next  century  (787-878)  were  carried  on  by 
veritable  heathens,  worshippers  of  Woden  and  Thor,  who  butchered 
women  and  children  as  well  as  men,  and  who  endeavored  to  destroy 
every  church  and  every  vestige  of  religion.  It  was  one  of  the  turn- 
ing-points in  England's  history,  therefore,  when  Saxon  Alfred  de- 
feated these  barbarians,  and  became,  as  it  were,  the  schoolmaster  as 
well  as  protector  of  kis  ignorant  and  long-suffering  people.  But 
many  Danes  had  become  permanent  settlers,  and  a  large  portion  of 
the  eastern  shore  was  set  off  for  their  occupancy  and  exempted  from 
the  jurisdiction  of  the  Saxons.  In  time  there  were  fresh  arrivals 
of  Scandinavians,  ever  increasing  in  numbers  and  in  ferocity,  until 
at  last  the  land  was  overwhelmed,  and  a  Danish  king  ruled  over 
England. 


XU  HISTORICAL  INTRODUCTION. 

Before  this  period  swarms  from  the  same  "northern  hive"  had 
crossed  the  Straits  of  Dover,  and  descended  upon  the  shores  ot 
France  ;  and,  although  they  had  given  up  their  own  rude  speech  and 
adopted  that  of  their  vassals,  they  retained  their  connections  with 
their  kindred  in  the  north  and  in  England,  and  gave  a  new  power 
and  significance  to  the  name  of  Norman.  Intermarriages  took  place 
between  the  ruHng  families,  and  some  of  the  refining  influences 
of  the  more  cultured  South  began  to  be  felt  among  the  sons  of  the 
Vikings.  The  natural  effect  of  Norman  rule  upon  language  was  in 
a  measure  anticipated.  Before  Duke  Robert's  son  had  thought  of 
invading  England,  Norman-French  was  regarded  as  a  polite  and 
desirable  language  at  the  court  of  the  Danish  king.  It  is  also 
proper  to  add  that,  as  the  whole  island  had  been  for  a  long  period 
under  Christian  influences,  the  Latin  liturgy  of  the  church  and  the 
influence  of  the  priests  had  made  many  Latin  words  and  phrases 
familiar  to  those  whose  only  speech  was  Anglo-Saxon.  To  this 
period  are  to  be  referred  the  corruption  of  monachus  into  ^'  monk," 
claustra  into  " cloister," /r^j-/^j/^r  into  "priest,"  kuriakon  (belong- 
ing to  the  Lord,  6  Kiqiog,)  into  "  church,"  episcopus  into  "  bishop,"  and 
also  the  profane  rendering  of  the  phrase  used  in  the  consecration 
of  the  wafer.  Hoc  est  corpus,  into  the  popular  mummery  over  a 
sleight-of-hand  performance,  "  hocus-pocus." 

The  Norman  conquest  produced  a  mighty  effect.  The  whole 
island,  except  in  a  few  remote  districts,  had  a  common  language, 
and  similar  laws  and  customs.  These  were  at  once  rudely  over- 
thrown. The  language  of  court  and  camp  was  ordained  to  be  Nor- 
man-French. The  dignities  and  great  estates  of  the  realm  were 
allotted  on  feudal  principles  by  the  conqueror  among  his  military 
chiefs.  All  that  a  powerful  government  could  do  for  three  hundred 
years  was  done  to  extirpate  the  Anglo-Saxon,  the  language  of  the 
common  people  ;  but  it  was  as  firmly  based  as  the  island  itself,  and 
the  Normans  at  the  most  could  only  complement  its  homely  vocab- 
ulary with  the  emblems  of  their  higher  culture  and  more  stately 
manners.  The  memory  of  Norman  rule  is  still  preserved  in  the 
terms  of  the  royal  assent  to  acts  of  Parliament,  and  in  many  phrases 


HISTORICAL   INTRODUCTION.  Xlll 

and  usages  in  the  law  courts.  An  enduring  record  of  the  conquest 
is  seen  in  the  language,  in  which  the  harmonized  Norman  and 
Anglo-Saxon  elements  exhibit  the  results  of  the  long  conflict  of 
opinions,  customs,  letters,  and  laws. 

The  fusion  of  Norman  and  Anglo-Saxon  was  very  slowly  accom- 
plished. For  four  centuries  at  Jeast  there  was  one  language  for  the 
nobleman  and  gentleman,  and  another  for  the  common  people.  The 
currents  of  thought  and  expression  had  come  together,  forced  into 
the  same  channel,  but,  like  the  waters  of  the  Mississippi  and  the 
Missouri,  they  refused  to  mingle,  and  showed  their  diverse  sources 
far  below  the  point  of  union.  In  the  end  there  was  a  tacit  com- 
promise. The  facts  of  every-day  life,  the  names  of  the  heavenly 
bodies,  the  elements,  the  family  relations,  the  house  and  home, 
domestic  animals,  crops,  and  tools  of  husbandry,  the  various  modes 
of  motion,  simple  articles  of  food  and  raiment,  were  all  known  by 
Anglo-Saxon  names.  But  terms  that  belong  to  government,  to  the 
privileges  of  high  birth,  to  the  usages  of  courts,  to  the  dress  and 
equipment  of  knights  and  dames,  to  tournaments,  crusades,  and 
pilgrimages,  to  letters  and  art,  were  all  of  Norman  origin. 

Two  paragraphs,  the  first  wholly  composed  of  Anglo-Saxon 
words,  and  the  second  of  mostly  Norman-French  origin,  will  serve 
to  illustrate  the  statement. 

So  the  man  (boor,  or  churl,  as  he  was  called  by  those  above  him) 
wedded  a  maid,  and  she  became  his  wife  (weaver),  and  bore  him 
sons  and  daughters  (milkers).  They  ate  bread  from  corn  grown  in 
their  lord's  field ;  they  cared  for  his  swine,  sheep,  horses,  hens, 
deer,  and  oxen,  and  were  used  to  the  axe,  plough,  flail,  and  sickle, 
as  well  as  to  rain,  wind,  hail,  and  snow.  Their  clothes,  shoes,  and 
hats  were  coarse,  and  their  looks  downcast.  The  moon  and  stars 
often  found  them  at  work.  Their  beds  were  of  straw,  and  they  rose 
from  sleep  before  the  sun  to  begin  toil  anew.  When  the  goodman 
was  near  his  end,  and  the  skill  of  the  leech  was  worthless,  neighbors 
with  friendly  hands  softly  shut  his  dying  eyes,  then  wrapped  the 
dead  body  in  a  shroud,  put  him  upon  a  bier,  and  buried  him  in  a 
nameless  grave  in  God's  acre. 


XIV  HISTORICAL  INTRODUCTION. 

And  the  noble,  nourished  in  the  mansion  or  castle  of  his  ances- 
tors, trained  from  infancy  to  feats  of  arms,  aspiring  to  a  station 
among  the  chivalry  of  the  realm,  appeared  in  gay  apparel  at  the 
court  of  his  sovereign,  and  joyously  received  the  royal  command  to 
battle  against  his  liege's  enemies.  He  is  feasted  at  a  sumptuous 
table,  covered  with  poultry,  veal,  mutton,  pork,  beef,  and  venison. 
He  quaffs  delicate  wine  from  an  ornate  goblet,  and  with  graceful 
courtesy  returns  the  monarch's  salutation.  The  favor  of  stately 
and  beautiful  dames  encourages  him.  In  the  campaign  he  is  dis- 
tinguished by  his  valor,  but  his  career  is  finally  closed  by  the  lance 
of  an  adversary.  A  coffin  now  encloses  his  corpse  ;  it  is  carried  in 
a  hearse  to  the  cemetery,  placed  in  the  family  tomb,  and  a  marble 
monument  or  mural  tablet  commemorates  his  virtues. 

It  will  be  noticed  that,  while  the  former  paragraph  is  wholly  Anglo- 
Saxon,  the  latter  is  Norman  only  in  part.  Articles,  pronouns,  con- 
junctions, prepositions,  the  forms  of  the  neuter  verb  to  be  and 
auxiliaries,  and  some  adverbs  must  be  drawn  from  the  elder  source  ; 
and  this  is  sufficient  to  show  that  the  basis  of  the  language  is  Anglo- 
Saxon.  The  Norman- French  element  was  a  valuable  addition,  but 
it  in  nowise  supplanted  the  original  stock,  and  cannot  be  used  by 
itself  to  form  a  single  sentence. 

We  have  now  to  consider  the  reciprocal  influences  of  these  two 
sources  upon  spelling  and  pronunciation.  Before  the  general  use 
of  printing,  orthography  was  but  little  regarded.  The  forms  of 
words  were  generally  expressed  phonetically ;  and  in  passing,  it 
may  be  observed,  that  in  reading  Chaucer,  if  a  word  looks  puzzling, 
the  sense  will  often  come  to  mind  by  pronouncing  it  aloud  and 
looking  away.  In  time,  the  general  license  was  much  restricted, 
and  now  each  word  has  its  integrity  guaranteed.  But  during  the 
transition  state  the  clerk  or  poet  spelled  as  it  seemed  right  in  his 
own  eyes.  The  hardening  into  unchangeable  forms  came  while  the 
elements  were  mixed  confusedly,  and  the  result  was  like  freezing 
over  a  river-basin  covered  with  heaped-up  fragments  of  floating  ice. 
Nearly  all  the  Latin  words  had  lost  something  of  their  form.     The 


HISTORICAL   INTRODUCTION.  Xt 

pestilent  u  was  inserted  in  honor,  favor,  error,  and  in  countless 
analogous  cases.  The  simple  directness  of  Saxon  spelling  was  lost. 
The  word  tongue  will  serve  as  an  instance.  Doubtless  the  pronun- 
ciation of  this  word  has  never  undergone  the  least  change ;  but  our 
Saxon  ancestors  spelled  it  tung,  just  as  it  is  sounded.  Later  it  had 
a  final  e,  and  at  length,  after  Norman  scribes  had  bewitched  it,  \\ 
appeared  as  we  now  see  it.  A  twist  was  given  to  every  word  capa- 
ble of  variation.  On  the  other  hand,  the  same  influences  softened 
the  harshness  of  Saxon  gutturals,  so  that  the  silent  letters  '\n  fought^ 
sought,  and  the  like  are  now  only  mute  evidences  of  a  barbarous 
utterance  heard  no  more. 

In  due  time  the  English  people  had  their  revenge  upon  the  Nor- 
man element,  especially  in  the  obliteration  of  the  original  accent  of 
words  derived  through  that  medium.  The  appellatives  remain,  but 
with  anglicized  spelling  and  accent ;  so  that  the  unskilled  reader 
hardly  recognizes  the  concluding  word  of  the  line,  — 

And  bathed  every  vein  in  swiche  licour', 

as  his  homdy  acquaintance  "  liquor."  Mange  survived  as  vulgar 
"  munch  ;  "  the  servant  valet  as  the  rascal  "  varlet ; "  cceur  mechant 
as  the  crabbed  "  curmudgeon  ;  "  and  quelques  choses  were  contemp- 
tuously termed  "kickshaws."  Every  scholar  will  be  able  to  add 
many  similar  examples. 

To  recapitulate,  we  find  in  our  language,  — 

1.  A  complete  groundwork  of  Anglo-Saxon;  no  other  element 
complete. 

2.  An  influx  of  words  derived  from  Latin  directly  or  through  the 
French,  mostly  mangled  by  vicious  spelling,  and  by  the  loss  of 
original  accent. 

3.  A  change  in  the  spelling  of  many  Saxon  words  and  a  soften- 
ing of  original  roughness  in  pronunciation. 

4.  A  coalescing  of  the  conflicting  elements  after  centuries  of 
resisCance,  and  continual  additions  from  classic  languages. 

The  difference  between  the  English  of  to-day  and  that  of  five  or 
six  centuries  ago  is  so  great  that  many  persons  are  led  to  believe 


XVi  HISTORICAL   INTRODUCTION. 

that  there  may  have  been  an  epoch  of  sudden  change  —  a  catas- 
trophe like  those  which  we  were  once  told  had  hai^pened  to  the 
earth  in  its  development ;  but,  as  enlightened  science  assures  us 
that  the  forces  at  work  upon  the  crust  of  our  planet  are  as  active  in 
the  present  g.s  in  the  remotest  geological  eras,  so  it  seems  likely 
that  our  language  is  undergoing  changes  in  the  number,  power,  and 
significance  of  its  words,  as  great  and  as  decisive  as  were  experi- 
enced in  any  part  of  its  history.  He  who  stands  by  a  glacier  for 
the  first  time  regards  the  mass  of  glittering  ice  as  immovable,  as 
eternal  as  the  mountain  it  buttresses.  But  the  patient  observer 
knows  that  the  huge  volume  of  ice  is  in  motion,  and  that  ages  hence 
the  grinding  of  the  rocks  and  the  furrowing  of  the  soil  underneatli 
will  bear  witness  to  its  slow  but  resistless  course.  Such  deep 
scratches  and  furrows  are  seen  in  every  part  of  our  literary  history. 
Our  poetry,  our  science,  our  sermons,  even  our  familiar  talk,  show 
the  mark<s  made  by  the  imperceptible  but  mighty  movement  of  that 
speech  which  symbohzes  the  progressive  thought  of  our  race. 

These  changes  are  not  due  in  any  great  degree  to  the  influence  of 
authors,  no  matter  how  popular  they  may  be.  No  poet,  historian,  or 
essayist  is  equal  to  the  task  of  ingrafting  half  a  dozen  new  words  that 
shall  really  thrive  and  endure  on  our  old  English  stock.  As  in  the 
beginning,  we  must  look  to  the  development  of  the  arts,  trade,  com- 
merce, and  philosophy  for  the  new  words  that  come  to  us  as  stran- 
gers, are  L  st  made  welcome  by  necessity,  and  then  become  our  own 
by  naturalization.  To  give  instances  would  be  to  recount  the  his- 
tory of  the  various  modern  sciences,  and  of  the  influence  of  com- 
merce on  civihzation.  Every  navigator  and  explorer,  —  every 
inventor,  chemist,  and  naturahst,  —  every  investigator  into  first 
causes,  whether  in  the  material  world,  or  in  the  interior  sphere  of 
thought,  must  in  a  measure'coin  new  symbols  for  new  facts  and  new 
theories,  and  so  make  a  new  vocabulary  to  express  his  ideas.  The 
English  of  two  hundred  years  ago  is  a  wonderful  arsenal ;  it  would 
seem  to  be  ample  for  the  poet  or  historian,  the  novelist  or  essayist ; 
but  neither  Tyndall,  Agassiz,  Darwin,  nor  Huxley  —  neither  Hamil- 
ton, Mill,  Spencer,  nor  Peirce  —  could  be  restricted  for  a  single 
page  to  the  vocabulary  that  served  Milton  so  well. 


HISTORICAL   INTRODUCTION.  XVll 

The  nomenclature  of  a  science  becomes  a  part  of  ordinary  speech 
when  that  science  becomes  popular.  From  the  study  of  mathematics 
we  have  derived  terms  that  are  now  familiar  and  no  longer  exclusive- 
ly technical,  such  as  tangent  and  radius.  With  the  general  dif- 
fusion of  geological  knowledge  we  have  such  words  as  alluvial^ 
strata^  and  fossil.  The  last  is,  in  fact,  so  thoroughly  domesticated 
that  it  has  acquired  a  secondary,  slang  sense.  Optical  science  has 
made  us  familiar  with  polarization  of  light,  spectroscopic  and  pris- 
matic experiments.  From  chemists  we  have  learned  the  vital  sig- 
nificance of  oxygen  and  the  multifarious  uses  of  carbon.  And  phre- 
nology, though  it  may  be  denied  the  rank  of  an  exact  science,  has 
furnished  us  with  many  convenient  forms  of  expression  which  could 
not  now  be  spared,  such  as  temperaments^  and  the  familiar  names 
of  organs  corresponding  to  special  mental  traits. 

Another,  and  by  far  the  most  active,  agency  is  to  be  found  in  the 
influence  of  newspapers.  For  the  bulk  of  mankind  the  daily  press 
stands  in  the  place  of  school  and  library,  guiding  opinion  and  form- 
ing taste  as  well  as  furnishing  news.  The  necessities  of  a  daily 
issue  forbid  any  very  careful  elaboration  of  sentences ;  still  it  must 
be  admitted  that  the  principal  journals  in  our  chief  cities  often  con- 
tain leading  articles  that  are  admirable  specimens  of  style  ;  and,  in 
the  aggregate,  the  literary  ability  of  the  press  greatly  exceeds  that 
which  is  more  deliberately  expended  upon  books.  But  a  small  part 
of  any  journal,  however,  is  either  written  or  very  carefully  revised 
by  the  editor.  The  bulk  of  all  we  read  is  written  by  reporters,  —  a 
class  created  by  the  needs  of  our  age,  —a  marv-ellous  class.  What 
the  cavalry  is  to  the  commanding  general,  —  namely,  eyes  and  ears,  — 
that  and  much  more  is  the  corps  of  reporters  to  the  editor-in-chief. 
They  search  for  the  materials  for  a  "  sensation  "  by  an  inevitable 
instinct.  They  have  no  fear  of  Addison  or  Irving  before  their  eyes. 
For  all  occasions  they  have  a  stock  of  euphuistic  phrases  that  would 
beggar  Sir  Percie  Shafton  ^  in  the  attempt  at  imitation.  Facts  are 
always  accomplished,  ordinary  events  are  embellished  by  "words  of 
learned   length   and   thundering    sound."     To   these   omnipresent, 

1  See  The  Monastery,  by  Sir  Walter  ScotL 

b 


XVm  HISTORICAL  INTRODUCTION. 

sharp-eyed,  mercurial,  facile  gentlemen  we  owe  the  invention  of 
some  desirable  words,  such  as  "  telegram,"  and  a  great  variety  of 
base  coinages  which  we  are  shocked  at,  until  we  learn  to  endure,  and 
at  length  to  forget,  the  crime  of  their  existence.  One  by  one,  such 
words  as  the  scholar  knows  to  be  unnecessary,  and  at  variance  with 
wise  analogy,  creep  into  reputable  company,  and  finally  receive  their 
accolade  from  some  tolerant  authority.  But  the  principal  mischief 
done  by  these  vedettes  of  the  newspaper  army  is  in  the  injury  to  the 
general  standard  of  taste  by  the  use  of  words  of  superlative  sig- 
nificance on  ordinary  occasions,  and  so  taking  all  contrasts  of  color 
out  of  our  speech.  Fire  is  "  the  devouring  element,"  and  its  result 
"  a  conflagration."  One  does  not  lose  a  pocket-book,  but  is  "  re- 
lieved "  of  it.  A  chance  fight  is  "  a  melee;  "  a  dance  is  "  a  Terpsich- 
orean  festival ; "  a  season  of  smooth  and  solid  snow  is  "  a  carnival 
of  sleighing  ; "  a  negro  is  "  a  XVth  amendment ;  "  an  unchaste  wo- 
man is  "  a  social  evil  ;  "  a  forgery  or  larceny  in  a  bank  is  "  a  financial 
irregularity  ;  "  every  person  successful  in  politics,  and  those  lifted  by 
accident  into  fame  or  infamy,  are  "interviewed."  The  corruption 
does  not  affect  language  only ;  when  the  gossip  about  some  great 
financial  scoundrel,  whose  collected  crimes,  if  duly  distributed, 
would  send  a  thousand  poor  men  to  prison  for  life,  is  "  itemized  "  in 
a  tone  of  raillery,  as  though  honor  and  truth  were  only  phrases,  and 
the  robbery  of  widows  and  orphans  by  the  tricks  which  law,  un- 
fortunately, cannot  punish,  were  a  jesting  matter,  it  is  not  too  much 
to  say  that  the  wrong  that  is  done  to  our  noble  language  is  only 
paralleled  by  the  insidious  injury  wrought  upon  public  morals. 

The  current  of  thought  has  turned  our  attention  somewhat  from 
the  original  end  in  view.  Let  us  return  to  the  subject  of  style  as  af- 
fected by  the  two  principal  sources  of  our  language.(^  It  is  commonly 
said  that  the  best  writers  use  the  most  Saxon  words,  and  the  student 
is  often  cautioned  against  the  habit  of  using  those  of  Latin  origin. 
But  the  more  rational  advice  is  to  use  the  words  that  best  express 
our  thoughts  A  The  scholar  that  knows  the  precise  meaning  of 
words,  and  their  associations  in  the  pages  of  the  best  writers,  will 
rarely  err  in  this  respect.     If  he  is  writing  of  home  affairs  and 


HISTORICAL  INTRODUCTION.  XIX 

humble  life,  his  own  good  sense  will  teach  him  to  avoid  the  stately 
and  high-sounding  words  that  should  be  reserved  for  occasions  of 
ceremony.  Nor  will  he  detract  from  the  significance  of  a  public 
festival  by  reporting  it  in  colloquial  style.  The  importance  of  good 
judgment  and  good  taste  in  the  choice  of  words  can  be  seen  in  the 
grotesque  and  profane  effect  produced  by  the  narration  of  sacred 
historical  events  in  the  vulgar  phrases  used  by  the  uneducated.  In 
the  drama  of  Saul,  by  Voltaire,  one  of  the  wittiest  productions  of 
this  scoffing  author,  the  comic  effects  in  a  great  measure  lie  in  the 
audacious  translation  of  the  grave  scriptural  style  into  the  homely 
vernacular.  A  contrary  effect,  and  equally  amusing,  is  produced  by 
relating  commonplace  things  in  a  learned  or  antiquated  style,  as 
Shenstone  has  done  in  The  Schoolmistress. 

In  critical  writings  the  use  of  foreign  terms  and  of  words  derived 
from  the  classic  languages  is  not  a  blemish,  unless  the  habit  is 
carried  to  the  extreme.  Music,  for  example,  has  a  nomenclature  of 
its  own,  mainly  of  Italian  origin,  and  it  would  be  impossible  to 
express  a  discriminating  judgment  upon  a  composition,  or  upon  its 
performance,  without  using  many  Italian  and  some  French  terms. 
It  must  be  admitted,  however,  that  the  way  these  terms  are  employed 
by  half-educated  writers  reminds  us  of  the  satire  in  Hudibras  :  — 

"  A  Babylonish  dialect 
Which  learned  pedants  much  affect ; 
It  was  a  party  colored  dress 
Of  patched  and  pyebald  languages ; 
'Twas  English  cut  on  Greek  and  Latin, 
Like  fustian  heretofore  on  satin." 

Writers  upon  art,  likewise,  having  a  similar  necessity,  are  prone 
to  the  over  use  of  technical  terms,  so  that  their  sentences  often  read 
very  much  like  a  jargon  of  intentional  nonsense. 

Poets  are  allowed  a  certain  license  ;  but  even  in  poetry  there  must 
be  a  delicate  judgment  and  a  wise  parsimony  as  to  ornament.  The 
fatal  necessities  of  rhyme  and  of  metre  often  drive  the  unskilled  into 
using  words  wrested  from  their  proper  significance,  and  placed  in 
unfitting  company.     This   must  be  taken  with  a  large  allowance. 


XX  HISTORICAL  INTRODUCTION. 

however.  Genius  perceives  and  shows  us  new  meanings  in  words, 
and,  by  combinations  that  seem  daring  and  lawless  to  prosaic 
minds,  gives  the  sudden  flash  that  we  recognize  as  poetic.  But 
what  music  is  to  the  deaf,  and  art  to  the  blind,  that  is  the  subtile, 
intangible,  and  undefinable  quality  which  we  call  poetry  to  minds 
wanting  in  the  imaginative  faculty.  In  a  notice  of  "  The  Cathedral," 
published  in  a  leading  review,  the  writer  had  gone  through  the 
poem  guided  by  the  instinct  of  a  dull  soul,  and  having  rooted  out 
every  poetic  blossom,  held  them  up  to  ridicule  as  combinations  for 
which  there  was  no  precedent,  and  therefore  against  the  canons  of 
good  taste.  Such  a  writer  would  have  in  Shakespeare  a  fine  garden 
to  rummage  and  trample  down.  Not  one  of  his  blooms  would  be 
left.  One  fancies  the  critic  pooh-poohing  at  the  song  in  Cymbeline. 
"  Hark,  the  lark  at  heaven's  gate  sings.*'  "  How  can  a  lark  sing 
at  heaven's  gate  .''  "  he  asks.  "  Springs  that  lie  on  chahced  flowers  !  " 
"  What  does  he  mean  ?  A  horse-trough  with  dandelions  around  it, 
perhaps."  There  is  not  a  page  of  Shakespeare,  nor  of  any  other 
imaginative  poet,  that  would  not  furnish  such  illustrations  ;  and  the 
lesson  taught  is  obvious  :  that  a  knowledge  of  plain  good  Enghsh, 
though  useful  and  praiseworthy,  does  not  necessarily  quaHfy  one  to 
write  upon  subjects  of  which  he  has  not  a  critical  knowledge  ;  and 
that  a  plodding  mind,  destitute  of  an  appreciative  sympathy  that 
corresponds  to  the  creative  power  of  the  poet,  should  feel  himself 
debarred  from  sitting  in  judgment  upon  works  that  he  cannot  com- 
prehend. 

From  what  has  been  seen  of  the  elements  of  our  language  it  will 
be  inferred  when  simple  facts  are  to  be  mentioned  we  shall  naturally 
use  Saxon  words  ;  but  any  generalization  of  those  facts  will  require 
the  use  of  words  from  the  Latin  and  Greek.  Thus  run^  jump, 
walk,  leap,  fly  are  Saxon,  but  motion,  the  generic  term,  is  Latin. 
So  the  Latin  animal  is  the  general  name  for  horse,  cow,  ox,  and 
sheep,  which  are  Saxon.  In  the  researches  of  science,  whether  in 
physical  or  in  mental  phenomena,  we  are  compelled  to  the  use  of 
Latin  and  Greek  words  for  the  exact  definitions  on  which  the  cer- 
tainty of  knowledge  depends.     The  ideas  conveyed  in  geometrical 


HISTORICAL   INTRODUCTION.  XXl 

science  cannot  be  clothed  in  Saxon  words.  The  notions  that  we 
receive  from  such  words  as  intuitive,  evolution,  correlation,  sym- 
metry, objective,  imagination,  ideality,  are  inseparable  from  their 
written  symbols,  and  there  is  no  evidence  that  we  can  think  of  them 
in  simpler  terms.  While,  therefore,  we  delight  in  the  unconscious 
simplicity  of  Bunyan  and  De  Foe,  we  gladly  give  unlimited  liberty 
of  expression  to  the  genius  of  Shakespeare  ;  we  enjoy  the  learn- 
ing that  breathes  like  antique  perfumes  in  Milton's  verse ;  we 
willingly  follow  the  long  roll  of  Burke's  majestic  sentences  ;  we  view 
with  keen  pleasure  the  pictured  landscapes  of  Ruskin,  and  we  study 
with  patience  the  vocabulary  which  each  metaphysician,  naturalist, 
and  philosopher  has  formed  as  the  necessary  vehicle  of  his  thought. 
There  is,  then,  no  absolute  standard  of  style,  except  that  of  adapta- 
tion to  the  end  in  view^J 

Biographical  and  Literary  Summary. 

The  selections  in  the  present  volume  begin  with  Chaucer.  The 
language  and  literature  of  the  Anglo-Saxons  are  virtually  foreign  to 
us  ;  the  writers  before  the  year  1400  are  only  interesting  to  antiqua- 
rians, and  their  works  do  not  come  within  the  scope  of  a  work  so 
elementary  as  this.  But  even  Chaucer  had  not  a  homogeneous  public 
to  address.  The  middle  and  lower  classes  of  Saxon  descent  could 
not  read  at  all,  and  would  not  understand  the  foreign  words  which 
the  poet  so  freely  uses.  The  higher  classes  had  partly  learned  the 
language  of  the  common  people,  and  doubtless  enjoyed  the  Canter- 
bury Tales  with  a  keen  relish  ;  but  to  the  multitude  they  must  have 
appeared  as  affected  and  unintelligible  as  a  society  novel  spiced  with 
plentiful  French  would  be  to  the  same  class  now. 

During  the  period  from  Chaucer  to  Spenser  many  changes  took 
place,  although  no  famous  writers  flourished.  The  alliterative  style 
that  had  so  long  prevailed  was  discarded.  The  old  termination  of 
the  verb  in  the  imperative  mode,  eth,  was  in  some  way  lost.  As  an 
instance  of  its  use  the  reader  will  please  notice  this  quatrain  of 
the  time  of  sea-compelling  Knut  (usually  spelled  Canute),  who  died 
in  1035:  — 


XXll  HISTORICAL   INTRODUCTION. 

"Merie  sungen  the  muneches  binnen  Ely, 
Tha  Cnut  Ching  reu  there  by, 
Roweth,  cnihtes,  naer  the  land 
And  here  we  thes  muneches  saeng."  1 

How  this  old  form  disappeared  it  is  impossible  to  say.  With  it 
went  many  old  Saxon  words  and  the  French  accent. 

To  Wycliffe,  the  translator  of  the  Scriptures,  we  owe  the  early 
formation  of  our  English  prose.  Since  his  day  the  spelling  has  been 
greatly  altered,  but  the  framework  of  his  sentences  remains.  A  few 
verses  of  the  Magnificat^  according  to  his  version,  are  appended  :  — 

"And  Marye  seyde:  my  soul  magnifieth  the  Lord. 
' '  And  my  spiry t  hath  gladdid  in  God  myn  helth. 

"  For  he  hath  behulden  the  mekenesse  of  his  handmayden  ;  for  lo  this  alle  generatiouns 
schulen  seye  that  I  am  blessed. 

"  For  he  that  is  might:  hath  done  to  me  grate  thingis,  and  his  name  is  ho'y. 
"And  his  mercy  is  fro  kyndrede  to  kyndredis  to  men  that  dreden  him." 

Sir  Thomas  More  is  a  prominent  figure  in  EngHsh  history,  and  a 
writer  of  some  force.  His  chief  work,  the  Utopia,  is  a  labored 
production  ;  but  it  is  principally  remembered  from  its  having  sup- 
plied us  with  an  adjective,  Utopian. 

Two  poets  of  this  period  are  still  popular:  Henry  Howard,  Earl 
of  Surrey,  and  Sir  Thomas  Wyatt.  If  they  had  written  upon 
other  themes  with  the  skill  they  have  expended  upon  the  frivolous 
conceits  of  lovers,  some  of  their  verses  would  have  been  printed  in 
the  body  of  this  book.  Surrey's  poem  written  while  a  prisoner  at 
Windsor  is  admirable.  But  the  affectations  of  writers  of  his  age, 
when  treating  upon  the  subject  of  love,  are  insufferable. 

WilHam  Dunbar,  in  the  same  century,  is  declared  by  Sir  Walter 
Scott  to  be  unrivalled  by  any  poet  that  Scotland  has  produced  ;  but 
with  our  impressions  of  Burns  and  of  Sir  Walter  himself,  the  judg- 
ment seems  hasty.  Hugh  Latimer  (burned  at  the  stake  in  1555)  was 
a  powerful  writer,  full  of  a  grave  wit  as  well  as  steadfast  purpose. 

*  Merrily  sung  the  monks  within  Ely 
When  Canute,  king,  rowed  thereby ; 
Row,  knights,  near  the  land, 
And  hear  we  these  monks*  song. 


HISTORICAL  INTRODUCTION.  XXlll 

His  Story  of  the  "  Goodwin  Sands  and  Tenterden  Steeple"  is  un- 
surpassed in  humor. 

WilHam  Tyndale,  .the  second  translator  of  the  Bible,  deserves 
mention  as  an  early  authority  in  the  correct  use  of  English.  He 
was  strangled  and  burned  near  Antwerp  by  order  of  Henry  VIII. 
His  version  of  the  Lord's  Prayer  is  as  follows  :  — 

"Oure  Father  which  arte  in  heven,  halowed  be  thy  name.  Thy  wyll  be  fulfilled,  as  well 
in  erth  as  yt  is  in  heven.  Geve  vs  this  daye  our  dayly  breade.  And  forgeve  vs  oure  treas- 
passes,  even  as  we  forgeve  them  which  treaspas  vs.  Leede  vs  not  into  temptacion,  but 
delyvre  vs  from  yvill.     Amen." 

The  Acts  and  Monuments  of  the  Church,  popularly  known  as 
Fox's  Book  of  Martyrs,  exercised  a  powerful  influence  in  forming  a 
fluent  and  idiomatic  style  of  narration. 

Thomas  Sackville,  Earl  of  Dorset,  the  author  of  "A  Mirror  for 
Magistrates,"  is  said  by  Hallam  to  furnish  the  connecting  link 
between  Chaucer  and  Spenser.  Arthur  Brooke,  the  author  of  the 
"  Tragical  History  of  Romeus  and  Juliet,"  upon  which  Shakespeare 
founded  his  famous  play,  and  George  Gascoigne,  author  of  "  The 
Steele  Glas,"  the  first  English  satire,  belong  to  this  period.  The 
affectations  of  the  age  culminated  in  the  Euphues  of  John  Lyly, 
from  whose  influence  not  even  Spenser  appears  to  have  been 
wholly  free. 

The  natural  periods  or  turning-points  of  our  literary  history  have 
been  too  irregular  to  coincide  with  the  centuries  ;  and  there  would 
seem,  to  Americans  at  least,  to  be  no  propriety  in  classifying 
authors,  like  acts  of  parliament,  by  the  reigns  of  more  or  less  un- 
lettered kings.  It  has  been  thought  expedient,  therefore,  to  divide 
the  list  in  what  seems  a  natural  way.  Commencing  with  Chaucer, 
the  student  will  find  the  principal  authors  tlPiat  flourished  until  the 
birth  of  Spenser.  From  this  second  great  poet  the  period  extends 
to  Milton,  embracing  all  the  great  dramatists  and  those  masculine 
poets  that  are  mentioned  hereafter.  The  third  period  extends  from 
Milton  to  Pope  ;  the  fourth  from  Pope  to  Wordsworth  ;  the  fifth 
from  Wordsworth  to  Tennyson  (1810).  The  sixth  embraces  con- 
temporary authors. 


XXIV  HISTORICAL  INTRODUCTION. 

It  will  be  understood  that  these  tables  do  /not  include  the 
authors  from  whose  works  specimens  have  been  taken  for  this 
Hand-Book. 

I.    From  about  the  time  of  Chaucer  to  Spenser. 

Sir  John  Mandeville Traveller 1 300-1 372 

John  Barbour Poet 1316-1395 

John  Wycliffe Translator  of  the  Bible 1324-1384 

John  Gower Poet 1325-1408 

John  Lydgate Ecclesiastic  and  Teacher 1375-1461 

James  I.  of  Scotland Poet 1394-1437 

William  Caxton Printer 1412-1491 

WilHam  Dunbar Poet 1460-1520 

John  Skelton Poet 1460-152^ 

Hugh  Latimer Bishop 1473-1553 

Lord  John  Berners Translator  of  Froissan 1474-1532 

William  Tyndale Translator  of  the  Bible 1477-1536 

Alexander  Barclay.  .   . Author  of  the  "  Ship  of  Fools."  .   .   .   .1488-1552 

Sir  Thomas  Wyatt Poet 1503-1541 

John  Knox Historian  of  Scottish  Reformation.  .   .  1305-1572 

Henry  Howard,  Earl  of  Surrey Poet 1517-1546 

John  Fox Clergyman  and  Historian 1517-1587 

Thomas  Wilson Critic  and  Rhetorician 1523-1581 

John  Stow Chronicler 1525-1605 

Thomas  Sackville,  Earl  of  Dorset.  .   .   .  Poet  and  Dramatist 1536-1608 

William  Camden Historian  and  Annalist .  1551-1623 

John  Lyly Poet  and  Dramatist 1553-1600 

The  period  from  Spenser  to  Milton  was  more  prolific  in  works  of 
imagination  than  any  in  English  history.  Not  to  dwell  with  too 
much  emphasis  upon  Shakespeare,  this  period  gave  birth  to  nearly 
all  our  classic  dramas,  to  our  weightiest  sermons  and  essays,  and  to 
much  of  our  noblest  poetry.  During  this  period  our  language  prob- 
ably attained  its  highest  development,  certainly  as  a  vehicle  for 
poetry.  The  authors  whom  we  term  "  Elizabethan  "  seemed  to  use 
words  with  a  certain  vital  meaning.  Their  images  and  epithets 
remind  us  of  the  boughs  of  that  tree  which  when  broken  off  by 
Dante  trickled  blood.  Their  verses  are  strong  and  sinewy,  —  not 
without  grace,  but  with  the  unconscious  grace  of  manly  dignity. 
No  successful  imitations  could  be  made  either  of  the  pregnant 
sentences  of  Bacon,  the  learned  profusion  of  Jeremy  Taylor,  or  of 
the  pungent  lines  of  any  of  the  great  galaxy  of  dramatists.     And 


HISTORICAL  INTRODUCTION.  XXV 

with  all  our  gains  from  modem  science,  it  is  doubtful  whether  the 

language  has  not  lost  as  much  in  power  and  picturesqueness  as  it 
has  gained  in  refinement  and  in  its  multiplied  synonymes. 

A  glance  over  the  following  table  will  bring  to  mind  many  im- 
mortal names.  There  is  room  to  mention  but  a  few.  Sir  Philip 
Sidney,  a  soldier  of  renown  and  a  writer  of  mark  both  in  prose  and 
verse;  —  James  Shirley,  remembered,  if  for  nothing  else,  by  the 
couplet,  — 

"Only  the  actions  of  the  just 
Smell  sweet  and  blossom  in  the  dust ;  |'  — 

Sir  John  Davies,  a  poet  whose  imaginative  power  is  shown  in  this  oft- 
quoted  fragment,  from  "  The  Orchestra,"  a  poem  upon  Dancing,  — 

"  For  lo,  the  sea  that  fleets  about  the  land, 
And  like  a  girdle  clips  her  solid  waist, 
Music  and  measure  both  doth  understand ; 
For  his  great  crystal  eye  is  always  cast 
Up  to  the  moon,  and  on  her  fixed  fast ; 
And  as  she  danceth  in  her  pallid  sphere 
So  danceth  he  about  the  centre  here  ;  "  — 

Thomas  Hobbes,  of  whom  Mackintosh  says,  "  His  style  is  the  very 
perfection  of  didactic  language  ; "  and  Macaulay  says,  "  His  lan- 
guage is  more  precise  and  luminous  than  has  ever  been  employed 
by  any  other  metaphysical  writer  ;  "  —  Burton,  whose  quaint  "  Anat- 
omy of  Melancholy  "  is  an  exhaustless  mine  of  ancient  learning,  and 
whose  introductory  poem  was  the  precursor  of  "  II  Penseroso  ;  "  — 
Chapman,  the  great  translator  of  Homer  ;  —  Massinger,  whose  "  New 
Way  to  Pay  Old  Debts  "  still  holds  the  stage  ;  —  Bishop  Hall,  one 
of  the  ablest  and  most  impressive  of  divines;  —  and  Sir  Thomas 
Browne,  the  learned  physician  and  essayist,  hardly  inferior  to  any 
of  his  brilliant  contemporaries. 

II.    From  Spenser  to  Milton. 

Richard  Hakluyt Collection  of  Voyages 1553-1616 

Sir  Philip  Sidney Author  of  the  Arcadia 1554-1586 

George  Chapman Translator  of  Homer.  ...    •  .   .   .   .  1557-1634 

Robert  Southwell. Poet 1560-1595 

Samuel  Daniel Poet,  Historian,  and  Dramatist.  .  .  .  1562-1619 


XXVI  HISTORICAL  INTRODUCTION. 

Christopher  Marlowe Dramatist 1563-1593 

Michael  Drayton Poet 1563-1631 

Sir  John  Davies Poet • 1570-1626 

Sir  Robert  Ayton Poet 1570-1638 

Samuel  Purchas Collection  of  Travels 1571-1628 

Dr.  John  Donne Poet ^573-1631 

Thomas  Middleton •    ...  Dramatist  and  Poet *iS74-i626 

Joseph  Hall,  Bishop  of  Norwich.  .   .   .  Sermons,  &c 1574-1656 

John  Marston Dramatist *i575-*i634 

George  Sandys Translator  of  Ovid,  &c 1577-1644 

Robert  Burton Essayist 1578-1640 

Giles  Fletcher Poet 15S0-1623 

Lord  Herbert  of  Cherbury Historian,  &c 1581-1648 

James  Usher,  Abp Annals  and  Chron.  of  Hist 1581-1656 

John  Webster Dramatist *is82-*i622 

Philip  Massinger Dramatist 1584-1640 

John  Selden Historian  and  author  of  "Table  Talk."  1584-1654 

John  Hales Divine 1584-1656 

Francis  Beaumont Dramatist 1585-1616 

Phineas   Fletcher Poet 1585-1650 

William  Drummond Poet 1585-1649 

John  Ford Dramatist 1586-1639 

George  Wither Poet 1588-1667 

Thomas  Hobbes Metaphysical  Philosopher 1588-1679 

William  Browne Poet ,  1590-1645 

Francis  Quarles Poet 1592-1644 

Izaak  Walton Biographer,  &c 1593-1683 

James  Shirley Poet 1596-1666 

James  Howell Letters 1596-1666 

Peter  Heylin Essayist,  &c 1600-1662 

William  Chillingworth Theologian 1602-1644 

Thomas  Randolph. Poet • 1605-1634 

John  Gauden Author  of  "  Eikon  Basilike."    ....  1605-1662 

Sir  William  Davenant Poet  and  Dramatist 1605-1668 

Sir  Richard  Fanshawe Poet .r 1607-166^ 

III.    From  Milton  to  Pope. 

From  Milton  to  Pope,  although  the  period  contains  many  of  tht 
greatest  names  in  our  literature,  is  certainly  a  descent.  If  prose 
improved,  poetry  as  surely  declined.  The  political  history  of  the 
time  will  throw  some  light  on  the  state  of  letters.  The  unblushing 
wickedness  of  the  court  of  Charles  I.  was  the  cause  of  the  rise  of 
Puritanism  ;  and  this,  for  a  time,  added  decency  to  the  other  quaUties 
of  the  British  muse.  But  with  the  Restoration  a  reaction  came,  and 
the  license  under  the  first  Charles  was  modesty  itself  in  comparison 
with  the  prevailing  grossness  under  the  second.     There  was  but 

*  Dates  uncertain. 


HISTORICAL   INTRODUCTION.  XXVU 

fittle  improvement  in  purity  until  after  the  Revolution  of  1688.  We 
look,  therefore,  in  this  period,  to  the  more  cultivated  of  the  Puritans, 
and  to  the  better  portion  of  the  clergy,  for  literature  of  a  good  moral 
tone.  The  royaUst  authors  might  display  as  much  learning,  fancy, 
and  grace,  and  a  more  cheerful  temper,  but  their  dramatists  and 
poets  delighted  in  evil  suggestions  and  in  scoffs  at  virtue,  and  the 
eloquence  of  their  preachers  was  mainly  devoted  to  violent  attacks 
upon  precisians  and  nonconformists,  and  as  violent  upholding  of 
royal  and  priestly  tyranny. 

A  few  names  are  selected  from  the  list. 

Sir  John  Suckling  is  principally  remembered  for  his  poem 
"  The  Wedding,"  from  which  the  following  stanza  is  frequently 
quoted :  — 


C: 


"  Her  feet  beneath  her  petticoat 
Like  little  mice  stole  in  and  out,  /  ■ 

As  if  they  feared  the  light :  XtA  -U  H^ 

But  O,  she  dances  such  a  way,  ^ 

No  sun  upon  an  Easter  day 
Is  half  so  fine  a  sight."       j 

Richard  Crashaw,  in  a  Latin  poem  upon  Christ's  turning  water 
into  wine,  used  the  figure,  — 

V'  The  conscious  water  saw  its  God  and  blushed.^^ 

To  this  period  belong  the  Diaries  of  Evelyn  and  of  Pepys,  in  which 
we  see,  as  upon  a  stage,  the  characters  of  two  hundred  years  ago  ; 
the  vehement  exhortations  of  Baxter,  which  still  hold  their  place  in 
religious  libraries  ;  the  noble  poetry  of  Denham,  whose  description 
of  the  Thames  and  Windsor  has  charmed  generations  ;  the  essays 
of  Sir  William  Temple,  "the  first  writer,"  sa)^s  Johnson,  "who 
gave  cadence  to  English  prose  ;  "  the  profound  treatises  of  Locke 
and  of  Newton  ;  the  witty  and  wicked  plays  of  Congreve  and 
Wycherley;  the  hymns  of  Dr.  Watts,  and  the  sombre  Night 
Thoughts  of  the  worldly  Dr.  Young. 

Bishop  Berkeley  holds  his  place  in  the  history  of  philosophy  by 
his  theory  of  the  non-existence  of  matter  ;  but  he  is  better  known 


XXVlll  HISTORICAL  INTRODUCTION. 

to  US  by  his  labors  in  Rhode  Island,  and  by  the  poem  in  which 
occur  these  familiar  lines  :  — 


Westward  the  course  of  empire  takes  its  way ; 

The  first  four  acts  already  past. 

A  fifth  shall  close  the  drama  with  the  day : 


^= 


*  \    Time's  noblest  offspring  is  the  last. "  / 

/ /William  Cleland  has  fixed  his  name  in  our  annals  by  a  lively 
tXpoem,  of  which  the  burden  is, — 

I  il     /V^'^^^^'^^^        "Hallo,  my  Fancy,  whither  wilt  thou  go ? " 

As  this  period  begins  with  Milton,  it  is  proper  that  our  last  refer- 
ence should  be  to  John  Bunyan,  the  immortal  Dreamer.     "  There  is 
/  .       .'  no  book,"  says  Macaulay,  "  on  which  we  would  so  readily  stake  the 

t/iAA^'"''     fame  of  the  old,  unpolluted  English  language,  no  book  which  shows 
/  so  well  how  rich  that  language  is  in  its  own  proper  wealth,  and  how 

little  it  has  been  improved  by  all  that  it  has  borrowed.  .  .  , 
Though  there  were  many  clever  men  in  England  during  the  latter 
half  of  the  seventeenth  century,  there  were  only  two  minds  which 
possessed  the  imaginative  faculty  in  a  very  eminent  degree.  One 
of  those  minds  produced  Paradise  Lost,  the  other  the  Pilgrim's 
>' Progress." 

Sir  John  Suckling. Poet 1609-1641 

Henry  Vaughan Poet 1614-1695 

Sir  John  Denham Poet • 1615-1668 

Richard  Baxter Preacher  and  Religious  Essayist.   .   .   .  1615-1691 

Richard  Crashaw Poet i6r6-i6so 

Dr.  Ralph  Cudworth Metaphysician 1617-1688 

William  Chamberlayne Poet 1619-1689 

Walter  Charleton Philosopher  and  Essayist 1619-1707 

John  Evelyn Diarist 1620-1706 

Robert  Boyle Nat.  Philosopher  and  Rel.  Essayist.   .  1628-1691 

Joh  I  Bunyan Author  of  The  Pilgrim's  Progress.    .   .  1628-1688 

Sir  William  Temple Essayist 1628-1698 

George  Saville,  Marquis  of  Halifax.  .    .  Political  Writer 1630-1695 

Charles  Cotton Poet 1630-1687 

John  Tillotson,  Abp Theologian 1630-1694 

John  Locke Philosopher 1632-1704 

Samuel  Pepys.  .  .   .  " Diarist 1632-1703 

Dr.  Robert  South Theologian 1633-1 716 

Wentworth  Dillon,  Earl  of  Roscommon.  Poet 1634-1685 

Edward  Stillingfleet,  Bp Theologian 1635-1699 

Lady  Rachel  Russell Author  of  Letters 1636-1723 


HISTORICAL   INTRODUCTION.  XXIX 

Sir  Charles  Sedley Poet 1639-1701 

William  Wycherley Dramatist 1640-1715 

Sir  Isaac  Newton Philosopher 1642-1727 

John  Strype Antiquarian  and  Historian 1643-1737 

Gilbert  Burnet Historian 1643-1715 

John  Wilmot,  Earl  of  Rochester.  .   .   .   Poet 1647-1680 

Thomas  Otway Dramatist 1651-1685 

Andrew  Fletcher  of  Saltoun Political  Writer 1653-1716 

William  Cleland Poet 1661-1689 

Richard  Bentley Classical  Scholar 1662-1742 

Dr.  John  Arbuthnot Satirist 1667-1735 

William  Congreve Dramatist 1669-1729 

B2rnard  Mandeville ■  Satirical  Essayist 1670-1733 

Anthony  A.  Cooper,  Earl  of  Shaftesbury.  Metaphysician 1671-1713 

Nicholas  Rowe Dramatist 1673-1718 

Dr.  Isaac  Watts Author  of  Hymns 1674-1748 

Dr.  Samuel  Clarke Metaphysician  and  Divine 1675-1729 

Ambrose  Phillips Poet  and  Essayist 1675-1749 

John  Hughes Essayist 1677-1720 

George  Farquhar. Dramatist 1678-1708 

Thomas  Pamell Poet 1679-1718 

Dr.  Edward  Young Poet 1681-1765 

Dr.  George  Berkeley,   Bp Metaphysician 1684-1753 

Eustace  Budgell Essayist 1685-1737 

Allan  Ramsay Poet 1686-1758 

Thomas  Tickell Ess:iyist 1686-1740 

IV.     From  Pope  to  Wordsworth. 

This  period  is  in  many  respects  one  of  the  most  important  in  our 
literary  history.  In  the  essays  of  Addison  and  Steele,  the  novels 
of  Fielding  and  Smollett,  and  the  verse  of  Pope,  Gray,  Goldsmith, 
and  Cowper,  the  language  attained  to  such  a  degree  of  refinement 
that  the  grace  and  ease  of  the  Spectator,  the  natural  pathos  of  the 
Deserted  Village,  and  the  polish  of  the  Rape  of  the  Lock,  have 
become  proverbial.  To  equal  these  productions  in  style  at  our  day  ' 
is  like  attempting  to  copy  the  perfect  symmetry  of  the(  Parthenon.],  - 
In  the  same  age  we  have  the  sententious  wisdom  of  Johnson,  the 
luminous  commentaries  of  Blackstone,  the  bold  forgeries  or  the 
impressive  imitations  of  Gaelic  poetry  by  Macpherson,  the  mag- 
nificent oratory  of  Burke,  Pitt,  and  Fox,  the  clever  comedies  of 
Colman  and  Goldsmith,  —  that  would  seem  brilHant  but  for  the 
blazing  lustre  of  Sheridan's  wit,  —  the  profound  studies  of  Adam 
Smith,  and  the  gorgeous  Oriental  dreams  of  Beckford.:  Tx/,'}"'   ^- 

Two  poets,  now  nearly  forgotten,  deserve  mention.     John  Dyer 


XXX  HISTORICAL  INTRODUCTION. 

seems  to  have  been  one  of  the  eariiest  of  what  may  be  termed  land- 
scape poets.  *'  Grongar  Hill "  may  fairly  challenge  comparison 
with  many  more  famous  pictures.  His  chief  poem,  "  The  Fleece," 
was  founded  upon  a  prosaic  subject ;  since  Jason's  adventure  wool 
has  hardly  been  a  theme  for  serious  verse.  The  other  is  Dr.  John 
Langhorne,  in  whose  poem,  "The  Country  Justice,"  occur  these 
lines  of  pity  for  a  female  vagrant :  — 

"Cold  on  Canadian  hills  or  Minden's  plain, 
Perhaps  that  parent  mourned  her  soldier  slain, 
Bent  o'er  her  babe,  her  eye  dissolved  in  dew  ; 
The  big  drops,  mingling  with  the  milk  he  drew, 
Gave  the  sad  presage  of  his  future  years. 
The  child  of  misery,  baptized  in  tears." 

Sir  Walter  Scott  has  mentioned  that  when  a  lad  of  fifteen  he  saw 
Burns  shedding  tears  over  a  picture  that  represented  this  scene. 

For  further  illustrations  the  reader  must  be  referred  to  the  ap- 
pended Hst,  and  to  the  ampler  materials  in  the  body  of  the  collection. 

Samuel  Richardson Novelist 1689-1771 

William  Lillo Dramatist 1693-1739 

P.  D.  Stanhope,  Earl  of  Chesterfield.    .   Author  of  Letters  to  his  Son 1674-1773 

Henry  Home,  Lord  Kames Rhetorician 1696-1782 

WilHam  Oldys Antiquarian 1696-1761 

John  Dyer Poet 1698-1758 

William  Warburton,  Bp Theologian 1698-1779 

Robert  Blair Poet 1699-1746 

Dr.  Philip  Doddridge Commentator  and  Divine 1702-1 751 

William  Pitt,  Earl  of  Chatham Orator 1708-1778 

Thomas  Reid Metaphysician 1710-1796 

William  Shenstone Poet 1714-1763 

Dr.  Hugh  Blair Rhetorician 1718-1800 

James  Merrick Poet 1720-1766 

Tobias  George  Smollett Novelist 1721-1 771 

Mark  Akenside Poet 1721-1770 

Samuel  Foote •    ...   Dramatist 1721-1777 

Joseph  Warton Poet  and  Critic 1722-1800 

John  Home Dramatist 1722-1808 

Dr.  Adam  Smith Political  Economist 1 723-1 790 

Sir  William  Blackstone Historian  of  Law 1723-17S0 

Thomas  Warton Historian  of  English  Poetry 1728-1790 

Dr.  Thomas  Percy Poet  and  Collector  of  Ballads 1728-1811 

Dr.  Erasmus  Darviin Poet 1731-1802 

William  Falconer, Poet 1732-1769 

Dr.  Joseph  Priestley. Divine  and  Natural  Philosopher.  .  .  .  1 733-1804 


HISTORICAL  INTRODUCTION.  XXXI 

WaHam  J.  Mickle Poet 1734-1788 

Dr.  John  Langhorne Poet i73S-i779 

John  Home  Tooke Philologist 1 736-1812 

Dr.  Richard  Watson »  .  Divine 1737-1816 

James  Macpherson ....  Author  or  Translator  of  Ossian 1738-1796 

Dr.  John  Wolcot,  "  Peter  Pindar."  .   .  Satirical  Poet 1738-1819 

Sir  John  Herschel Astronomer 1738-1822 

Mrs.  Hester  L.  Thrale.  .......  Author  of  Biog.  Notes  of  Johnson,  &c.  1740-1822 

James  Boswell Biographer 1740-1795 

Anna  Letitia  Barbauld Poetess 1743-1825 

Dr.  William  Paley Theologian,  &c 1744-1805 

William  Mitford Historian 1744-1827 

Thomas  Holcroft Dramatist. 1745-1809 

Henry  Mackenzie Novelist 1745-1831 

Hannah  More Author  of  Religious  Tales,  &c.  .       .   .  1745-1833 

Sir  William  Jones Oriental  Scholar 1746-1794 

Michael  Bruce Poet 1746-1767 

William  Coxe Historian 1747-1828 

Jeremy  Bentham Political  Economist 1748-1832 

Charles  James  Fox Orator 1749-1806 

Sophia  Lee Novelist 1750-1824 

Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan Orator  and  Dramatist 1751-1816 

Thomas  Chatterton Poet 1752-1770 

Frances  Burney,  Mme  D'Arblay-  .   .   .  Novelist 1752-1840 

Dr.  Dugald  Stewart Metaphysician 1753-1828 

William  Roscoe Historian  of  Florence,  &c 1753-1831 

Rev.  George  Crabbe Poet 1754-1832 

William  Godwin Novelist  and  Political  Essayist 1756-1836 

W  illiam  Beckford Author  of  Vathek 1759-1844 

William  Wilberforce ....  Philanthropist 1 759-1833 

Dr.  Adam  Clarke Divine  and  Commentator. 1760-1832 

John  Mayne Poet 1761-1836 

George  Colman Dramatist 1762-1836 

Rev.  William  Lisle  Bowles Poet 1762-1850 

William  Cobbett Political  Writer 1762-1835 

Sir  Edgerton  Brydges Editor  of  Milton,  «fec 1762-1837 

Joanna  Baillie Dramatist 1762-1851 

Samuel  Rogers Poet 1763-1855 

Mrs.  Anne  Ward  Radcliffe Romancer 1764-1823 

Maria  Edgeworth •   •   •  Novelist 1765-1849 

Sir  James  Mackintosh Historian 1765-1832 

Rev.  James  Grahame .  Poet 1 765-1811 

Harriet  Lee Novelist 1766-1851 

Carolina  Oliphant,  Lady  Nairn Song  Writer 1766-1845 

Robert  Bloomfield Poet 1766-182^ 

Rev.  Thos.  Robert  Malthas Political  Economist 1766-1836 

Isaac  Disraeli Collector  of  Literary  Miscellany.    .   .   .  1 766-1848 

Sharon  Turner Historian 1768-1847 

"Junius,"  Letters  of,  .  .   .......  Appeared  in 1769  er/j^'^. 

Amelia  Opie Author  of  Moral  Tales,  &c 1769-1853 

Robert  Pultocke Author  of  "Peter  Wilkins." No  ( 


XXXU  HISTORICAL   INTRODUCTION. 

V.    From  Wordsworth  to  Tennyson. 

As  we  approach  nearer  to  our  own  flay,  the  number  of  authors 
demanding  our  attention  seems  to  increase.  It  is  no  longer  a  rare 
accomplishment  to  write  with  a  certain  degree  of  correctness  and 
elegance.  The  subjects  in  which  the  reading  world  takes  an  inter- 
est have  multiplied,  until  now  every  art  and  science  has  its  own 
literature  and  school  of  criticism.  No  one  can  now  say  with  Lord 
Bacon,  "  I  have  taken  all  knowledge  to  be  my  province ; "  the 
literary  world,  like  a  scientific  convention,  is  divided  into  "  sections," 
and  happy  is  he  who  is  familiar  with  any  considerable  part  of  the 
field  of  modern  thought.  Compare  the  London  of  Addison's  time 
with  the  London  of  to-day.  The  Spectator's  daily  essay  was  almost 
the  only  intellectual  entertainment  for  all  educated  people  ;  a  glance 
into  the  monthly  summary  of  books  and  other  publications  in  Mr. 
Murray's  "  Academy  "  will  show  how  vast  and  varied  is  that  enter- 
tainment now.  And  this  leads  us  to  remark  that  mere  style  is  no 
longer  the  only  criterion  in  determining  the  rank  to  be  given  a  work 
considered  as  a  part  of  our  literature.  The  most  perfect  description 
of  an  engine  or  of  a  chemical  process  would  be  excluded  by  the 
nature  of  the  subject,  unless  it  were  written  by  a  poet  or  by  a  man 
of  great  imaginative  power,  and  so  lifted  out  of  the  class  of  merely 
technical  treatises.  The  same  would  be  true  of  any  special  essay 
upon  a  theological  or  philosophical  topic.  So,  without  using  the 
term  "  literature  "  as  precisely  equivalent  to  belles-lettres,  we  must 
recognize  in  it  a  hmitation  to  moral  and  beautiful  ideas  and  sugges- 
tions —  a  hmitation  not  capable  of  definite  boundaries,  but  easily 
felt  by  all  persons  of  taste.  This  thought  will  serve  to  explain  the 
omission  of  such  learned  and  powerful  writers  as  Sir  William  Hamil- 
ton, John  Locke,  Herbert  Spencer,  Mill,  and  Darwin. 

There  is  room  for  a  few  comments  only  upon  the  authors  in  the 
following  list. 

In  fiction  we  should  mention  the  brilliant  Eastern  romance,  "  An- 
astasius,"  by  Thomas  Hope,  and  the  equally  interesting  stories  of 
Persian  life  by  James  Morier.     Probably  a  more  accurate  knowledge 


HISTORICAL   INTRODUCTION.  XXXlll 

of  Persian  character  and  manners  can  be  gained  from  "  Hadji  Baba  " 
than  from  any  other  accessible  source.  The  novels  of  Miss  Jane 
Austen  had  a  great  and  deserved  popularity ;  and  though  younger 
readers  consider  them  a  trifle  dull,  they  are  still  read  with  delight  by 
those  persons  of  maturer  years  who  are  not  infected  by  the  prevail- 
ing hurry  of  our  times.  The  establishment  of  the  leading  reviews 
was  a  great  event,  and  did  much  to  put  criticism  upon  a  higher  base, 
and  to  give  form  and  weight  to  the  best  thought  upon  current 
literary  topics.  A  few  poets  deserve  honorable  mention.  The 
graceful  and  tender  verses  of  Mrs.  Hemans  ;  the  stirring  ballads  of 
Lockhart ;  the  natural  feeling  of  Motherwell ;  Ihe  rollicking  songs  of 
Maginn,  first  and  greatest  of  "  Bohemians  ;  "  the  funeral  drum-beat 
of  Wolfe,  immortal  from  his  one  poem  ;  and  the  striking  picture  of 
the  desert  by  Pringle,  — 

"  With  the  silent  Bush-boy  alone  by  his  side,  '*  — 

all  have  strong  claims  upon  us,  and  would  be  considered  as  worthy 
of  a  place  with  the  best,  if  a  single  volume  could  contain  them  all. 
We  can  point,  too,  to  Grote,  the  historian  of  Greece  ;  to  Hugh  Miller, 
most  enthusiastic  and  individual  of  geologists  ;  to  the  learned  and  abk 
philologist.  Dean  Trench  ;  to  the  historical  studies  of  Dr.  Arnold,  th^ 
great  master  of  Rugby ;  to  the  powerful  sermons  of  Dr.  Chalmers, 
the  metaphysics  of  Hamilton,  the  wit  of  Jerrold,  and  the  drolleries 
of  a  Becket. 

John  Tobin Dramatist 1770-1804 

James  Hogg,  the  *' Ettrick  Shepherd."    Poet 1770-1835 

Mrs.  Amelia  Opie Novelist 1770-1853 

George  Canning Poet 1770-1823 

Rev.  John  Foster Essayist 1770-1843 

Thomas  Hope Author  of  "  Anastasius. " 1772-1831 

David  Ricardo Political  Economist 1772-1823 

Rev.  H.  F.  Gary Translator  of  Dante 1772-1844 

Mrs.  Mary  Tighe ,.   .   .  .   Poetess 1773-1810 

James  Mill Logician  and  Political  Economist.  .  .  .  1773-1836 

Robert  Tannahill Poet 1774-1810 

John  Leyden Poet 1775-1811 

Jane  Austen Novelist 1775-1817 

Matthew  G.  Lewis Dramatist 1775-1818 

Sir  Alexander  Boswell Song  Writer. 1775-1822 

Jane  Porter Novelist 1776-1850 

C 


XXXiv  HISTORICAL   INTRODUCTION. 

Sir  Humphry  Davy Natural.  Philosopher 1778-18*9 

Dr.  Thomas  Brown Metaphysician 1778-1820 

Mrs.  Frances  Trollope Novelist  and  Traveller 1 778-1863 

Henry  Hallam Historian.  .  .    • 1778-1851 

Rev.  Thomas  Moss Poet -1808 

Rev.  George  Cro!y Dramatist 1780-1860 

Anna  Maria  Porter Novelist 1780-1832 

James  Morier. Stories  of  Persian  Life 1 780-1849 

John  Wilson  Croker Critic 1780-1857 

Ebenezer  Elliott Poet 1781-1849 

Sir  David  Brewster Scientific  Writer. 1 781-1868 

Dr.  Reginald  Heber Poet 1783-1826 

Allan  Cunningham Poet 1784-1842 

James  Sheridan  Knowles Dramatist 1784- 

Henry  K.  White Poet 1785-1806 

Sir  W.  F.  P.  Napier Historian  of  Peninsular  War 1785-1860 

Dr.  Richard  Whately,  Abp Logician  and  Divine 1 787-1863 

Caroline  Anne  (Bowles)  Southey.  .   .   .   Poetess 1787-1854 

Thomas  Piingle Poet 1788-1834 

Sir  William  Hamilton Metaphysician 1788-1836 

Theodore  E.  Hook Novelist  and  Humorous  Poet 1788-1842 

Rev.  H.  Barham.    .   .   .   « Author  of  Comic  Tales  in  Verse.   .   .   .  1788-1845 

George  Combe.    - Physiologist  and  Philosopher 1788-1858 

Sir  Francis  Palgrave. Historian 1788-1860 

Mary  Russell  Mitford Novelist 1789-1855 

Isaac  Taylor Religious  Essayist 1789-1865 

Bryan  Walter  Procter Poet 1790- 

Earl  Russell Historian,  &c 1791- 

Rev.  Charles  Wolfe Poet 1791-1821 

Rev.  Henry  H.  Milman Historian 1791-1868 

Sir  Roderick  Murchison Geologist 1792- 

Sir  John  Bowring Translator  of  Poetry 1 792- 

Captain  Fred.  Marryatt Novelist 1792-1848 

Sir  Archibald  Alison Historian 1792-1862 

Rev.  John  Keble Poet r792-i866 

Mrs.  Felicia  Dorothea  Hemans Poetess 1 793-1 835 

George  Grote Historian 1794- 

WilHam  Maginn Magazinist 1794-1842 

Dr.  Thomas  Arnold Teacher  and  Historian 1794-1842 

John  G.  Lockhart Poet  and  Biographer 1794-1854 

William  Howitt Poet  and  Essayist 1795- 

Dr.  William  Whewell »   .   •   Divine  and  Philosopher 1795-1866 

Thomas  Noon  Talfourd Dramatist *.   .   .  1795-1854 

Mrs.  Mary  Somerville Scientific  Writer 1796- 

Hartley  Coleridge Poet  and  Essayist 1796-1849 

Sir  Charles  Lyell Geologist 1797" 

William  Motherwell Poet i797-'835 

Thomas  Haynes  Bayly. Poet 1797-1839 

Mary  Wolstonecraft  Shelley Novelist 1797-1851 

Samuel  Lover Song  Writer. •  .   .   .   .  1797-1868 

David  Macbeth  Moir Poet 1798-1851 

Sir  Henry  Taylor Poet 1798- 

William  Carleton Novelist 1798-1865 


HISTORICAL   INTRODUCTION.  XXXV 

Robert  Pollok Author  of  the  Course  of  Time 1799-1827 

Mary  Howitt. Poetess  and  Essayist i8oo- 

Dr.  Edward  B.  Pusey Theologian 1800- 

George  P.  R.  James Novelist 1800-1860 

Rev.  John  Henry  Newman Theologian 1801- 

Letitia  Elizabeth  Landon Poetess 1802-1838 

Winthrop  Mackworth  Praed Poet 180  - 

Robert  Chambers Miscellaneous  Writer 1802-1871 

Charles  Swain Poet 1803- 

Gerald  Griffin Novelist 1803-1840 

Douglass  Jerrold Dramatist  and  Comic  Essayist 1803-1857 

Mrs.  Anna  Maria  Hall Author  of  Novels  and  Sketches.    .   .   .  1804- 

Earl  Stanhope,  Lord  Mahon Historian 1805- 

Samuel  Wilberforce,   Bishop  of  Oxford.  Theologian  and  Politician 1805- 

Rev.  John  Frederick  Denison  Maurice.  Clergyman 1805- 

John  Stuart  Mill Metaphysician  and  Political  Economist.  1806- 

Dr.  Richard  Chenevix  Trench Philologist  and  Divine 1807- 

Samuel  Warren, Novelist. 1808- 

Caroline  E.  S.  (Sheridan)  Norton.  .  .   .   Poetess 1808- 

Rev.  Robert  Montgomery Poet 1808-1855 

Charles  Merivale. Historian 1808- 

Mrs.  Mary  Cowden  Clarke Author  of  Concordance  of  Shakespeare.  180 >- 

Charles  James  Lever Novelist 1809- 

Mark  Lemon,  Editor  of  Punch Author  of  Dramas  and  Sketches.  .   .   .  1809-1870 

Rich.  Moncton  Milnes,  Lord  Houghton.  Poet 1809- 

Agnes  Strickland Historian 

Charles  Darwin Philosopher - 


Edinburgh  Encyclopaedia,  begun  1808,  finished  1830. 

Encyclopedia  Britannica,  begun  1810,  finished  1824,  new  edition  186a 

Edinburgh  Review,  founded  1802. 

Quarterly  Review,  founded  1809. 

Blackwood's  Magazine,  founded  1817. 

Westminster  Review,  founded  1824. 


VI.      CONTEMPORARY   AUTHORS  (SINCE    1810). 

The  period  has  now  been  reached  at  which  the  wise  critic  will 
hesitate  about  giving  any  very  positive  judgments.  As  we  look  far 
backward,  the  great  lights  of  our  literature  shine  like  stars.  Chaucer 
and  Spenser,  Shakespeare  and  Milton,  are  as  fixed  in  our  firmament 
as  Sirius,  Arcturus,  Lyra,  and  Spica  Virginis  are  in  the  blue  above 
us.  As  to  later  names,  the  debate  still  goes  on,  and  the  next  age 
may  make  a  new  order  of  succession  ;  and  when  we  come  nearer, 
such  are  the  honest  diiferences  of  opinion,  growing  out  of  varying 


XXXVi  HISTORICAL   INTRODUCTION. 

religious  culture,  and  varying  mental  training,  it  is  no  wonder  that 
there  are  nearly  as  many  Valhallas  for  literary  heroes  as  there  are 
separate  sects  and  schools  of  thought.  When  we  remember  how 
few  geniuses  have  been  appreciated  while  living,  we  shall  be  cautious 
as  to  our  estimates  of  contemporaries.  We  do  not  know  what  form 
of  faith,  what  school  of  thought,  what  theory  of  criticism,  is  to  rule 
the  world.  To  recognize  the  divine  gift  in  any  of  the  mortals  with 
whom  we  daily  mingle,  and  whose  errors  and  foibles  are  as  evident 
as  their  talents,  requires  the  eye  of  prophecy.  The  suitors  of  Portia 
had  an  easier  task  set  before  them,  for  the  enigmatical  inscriptions 
upon  the  caskets  gave  some  clew  for  a  ready  wit  to  seize  upon. 

There  has  been  no  attempt  at  making  these  last  lists  full  and 
complete.  The  number  of  living  writers  is  very  great,  and  their 
relative  rank  is  wholly  problematical.  It  is  only  hoped  that  this  is 
a  reasonably  fair  summary.  Among  writers  of  fiction  will  be  noticed 
Wilkie  Collins,  eminent  for  his  skilfully  constructed  plots,  —  Charles 
Reade,  whose  power  is  unquestioned,,  and  Sala,  cleverest  of  im- 
itators, and  with  a  good  style  of  his  own  also.  Dr.  Brown,  the 
genial  essayist  and  charming  story-teller,  has  written  only  enough 
to  make  usl^egret  that  an  absorbing  profession  had  left  him  so  little 
leisure  for  authorship.  Some  views  of  the  philosophy  of  history  are 
ably  presented  by  Creasy  in  his  "  Fifteen  Decisive  Battles  of  the 
World,"  Lewes  challenges  the  attention  of  all  cultivated  readers 
by  his  life  of  the  illustrious  Goethe  and  his  History  of  Philosophy. 
Helps  has  furnished  many  topics  for  discussion  to  "friends  in 
council."  Buckle  has  taken  the  vast  accumulations  of  history,  and 
having  "sorted"  the  classes  of  facts,  has  given  to  the  world  a 
doctrine  of  averages,  showing  a  constant  law  in  apparent  disorder. 
But  the  largest  and  most  valuable  contributions  to  our  literature  in 
the  widest  sense  have  come  from  the  travellers,  natural  philosophers, 
and  scientific  explorers,  who  now  command  the  most  eager  atten- 
tion from  all  educated  men,  and  are  exerting  an  influence  upon 
thought,  as  well  as  upon  the  whole  tone  of  literature  and  language, 
of  which  we  have  but  a  faint  conception. 

While  these  powerful  causes  are  at  work  within,  events  are  ex- 


HISTORICAL   INTRODUCTION.  XXXVll 

tending  the  sphere  of  the  language  without.  The  colonizing  genius 
of  our  race  has  planted  civilization  on  all  the  prominent  points  in 
the  highway  around  the  globe,  so  that  the  people  once  known  as 
barbarians,  dwelling  upon  an  insignificant  island,  are  probably 
destined  to  diffuse  their  speech  as  widely  as  their  political  and  com- 
mercial influence,  and  to  return  to  the  East,  the  old  cradle  of  races, 
the  augmented  light  of  a  more  universal  learning  and  nobler  moral 
truth. 

Eliot  Warburton Traveller. 1810-1852 

Gilbert  Abbot  i  Becket.  Author  of  Comic  History  of  Rome,  &c.,  in  "Punch."  .    1810-1856 

Dr.  John  Brown Author  of  Tales  and  Essays 1810- 

Mrs.  Elizabeth  C.  Gaskell.  ......   Novelist 1810-1865 

Charles  Mackay Poet 1812- 

Sir  Edward  S.  Creasy, Historical  Writer 1812- 

John  Forster Biographical  and  Historical  Writer.  .   .    1812- 

Rev.  John  William  Colenso,  Bp Theological  Writer, 1813- 

William  Edmonstoune  Aytoun Poet 1813-1865 

Charles  Reade Novelist 1814- 

Anthony  Trollope Novelist 1815- 

Philip  James  Bailey Poet 1816- 

Theodore  Martin Comic  Poet 1816- 

Charles  Shirley  Brooks, Novelist 1816- 

George  H.  Lewes Author  of  Life  of  Goethe,  Arc 1817- 

Rev.  Arthur  i*.  Stanley Divine  and  Philologist 1817-1870 

Austen  Henry  Layard Traveller,  &c 1817- 

Arthur  Helps. Essayist  and  Historian 1817- 

Tom  Taylor Dramatist 1817- 

Eliza  Cook Poetess 1818- 

Herbert  Spencer Philosopher 1820- 

William  Hepworth  Dixon Author  of  Travels  and  Hist.  Studies.   .    1821- 

Henry  Thomas  Buckle Historian  of  Civilization.  ...*....    1822-1862 

David  Masson Essayist,  &c 1822- 

Matthew  Arnold Poet  and  Com.  of  Education 1822- 

Coventry  Patmore Poet  of  domestic  Hfe 1823- 

Miss  Charlotte  Mary  Yonge Novelist.   ...       1823- 

Miss  Adelaide  Anne  Procter Poetess 1824-1S64 

Sydney  Dobell Poet 1824- 

Wilkie  Collins. . •    •   •    Novelist 1825- 

Thomas  Henry  Huxley .   Geologist,  &c 1825- 

George  Macdonald -.   .   .    Novelist 1826- 

George  Augustus  Sala '■.   -    Novelist,  &c 1827- 

Gerald  Massey. Poet .    1828- 

William  Allingham "Poet 1828- 

Alexander  Smith Poet 1830- 

Bulwer  Lytton  ("Owen  Meredith"),   .   Poet >  .  .   1831- 


XXXVlll  HISTORICAL  INTRODUCTION. 

Hints  on  the  Order  of  Reading. 
The  course  prepared  for  the  Latin  School  embraced  extracts  from 
American  as  well  as  Britis'i  r.uthors  ;  but  after  the  work  of  compila- 
tion was  begun,  it  was  found  to  be  impracticable  to  condense  the 
whole  into  one  book,  and  accordingly  it  was  determined  to  leave  the 
specimens  of  American  hterature  for  a  second  volume.  Omitting 
(for  this  purpose)  the  American  authors,  the  order  suggested  was  as 
follows  :  — 

Scott  —  The  Lady  of  the  Lake,  and  prose  extracts.     Goldsmith 

—  The  Deserted  Village  and  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield.  Campbell. 
Dickens  —  A  Christmas  Carol,  as  abridged.  Wordsworth  —  We 
are  Seven.  Cowper — John  Gilpin.  Tennyson — Charge  of  the 
Light  'Brigade.  Leigh  Hunt.  Ancient  Ballads.  Sterne. 
Beattie.  Tennyson  —  The  Miller's  Daughter.  Morris  —  The 
Man  born  to  be  King.  Hazlitt.  Gray.  Addison.  Moore. 
Burns.  Hood.  Shelley.  Milton  —  L' Allegro  and  II  Pen- 
seroso.  Pope  —  Rape  of  the  Lock.  Thomson.  Collins.  Cole- 
ridge. Keats.  Wordsworth  —  Intimations  of  Immortality. 
Tyndall.  Milton  —  Lycidas  and  Comus.  Pope  —  Essay  on 
Man.     Dryden.     Spenser.     Thackeray.      Lamb.     Tennyson 

—  The  Passing  of  Arthur.  Ruskin.  Shakespeare  —  Julius 
Caesar  and  As  You  Like  It.  Macaulay  —  prose  and  verse. 
Burke.  Marvell.  Herbert.  Byron.  Carlyle.  Robert 
Hall.  Ben  Jonson.  Bacon.  Shakespeare  —  The  Tempest, 
Macbeth. 

The  list  does  not  comprise  all  the  authors  in  the  volume  ;  but  it 
is  given  for  what  it  is  worth  to  the  consideration  of  instructors. 


HAND-BOOK 


OF 


ENGLISH   LITERATURE 


GEOFFREY   CHAUCER. 

Geoffrey  Chaucer,  who  has  been  fitly  styled  "the  morning  star  of  English  poetry," 
flourished  in  the  reign  of  Edward  III.,  and  died  A.  D.  1400.  The  date  of  his  birth  is 
unknown,  but  it  is  supposed  to  have  been  about  the  year  1328.  He  had  some  public  em- 
ployments, and  a  pension  from  the  crown ;  but  the  royal  instructions,  on  one  occasion, 
certainly,  indicate  that  the  practical  monarch  had  no  special  appreciation  of  the  poet's 
genius.  "  The  Canterbury  Tales, "  his  principal  work,  is  a  connected  series  of  stories  told 
by  a  number  of  pilgrims  on  their  way  to  the  shrine  of  a  Becket.  The  characters  are  vividly 
and  minutely  drawn,  so  that,  if  history  were  silent,  the  dress  and  customs  of  the  age,  and 
even  the  general  condition  of  the  kingdom,  could  be  reproduced  from  this  poem  alone. 
Chaucer  has  never  been  equalled  in  flowing,  animated,  and  picturesque  narrative  ;  and 
though  his  capricious  versification  and  his  use  of  a  French  accent  and  of  words  now  obsolete 
are  enough  to  repel  most  readers,  still  no  student  ever  regretted  the  labor  it  cost  to  under- 
stand this  great  poet.     A  week's  study  will  make  his  pages  luminous. 

[From  the  Prologue  to  Canterbury  Tales.] 

Whan  that  Aprille  with  his  shoures  soote  ' 
The  drought  of  March  hath  perced  to  the  roote, 
And  bathed  euery  veine  in  swich  ^  Hcour', 
Of  whiche  vertue  engendred  is  the  flour ; 
Whan  zephirus  eke  with  his  swete  brethe 
Inspired  hath  in  every  holt'*  and  hethe 
The  tendre  croppes,  and  the  yonge  sonne 
Hath  in  the  Ram  his  halfe'  cours  yronne,* 
And  smale  foules  maken  melodie, 
That  slepen  al  the  night  with  open  eye, 
So  priketh  hem  nature'  in  hir  corages  ; 
Than  longen  folk  to  gon  on  pilgrimages, 
And  palmeres  for  to  seken  straunge  strondes, 
To  feme*  halwes^  couthe'  in  sondry  londes  ; 

1  Soft.  2  Such.  3  Grove.  *  Run. 

*  Ancient.  6  Hallowed  persons,  s^pts.  ^  Known. 


;  r '  -rli^ND-^OpK  O^  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

And  specially  from  euery  shires  ende 

Of  Englelond,  to  Caunterbury  they  wende, 

The  holy  blisful  martyr  for  to  seke, 

That  hem  hath  holpen,  whan  that  they  were  sekec 


DESCRIPTION   OF   "  THE   NONNE. ' 

Ther  was  also  a  Nonne,  a  Prioresse, 
That  of  hir  smyling  was  full  simple  and  coy ; 
Hire  gretest  othe  n'as  but  by  Seinte  Loy ; 
And  she  was  cleped^  Madame  Eglentyne. 
Ful  wel  she  songe  the  seruise'  diuine, 
Entuned  in  hire  nose  ful  semely ; 
And  french  she  spake  ful  fayre  and  fetisly,- 
After  the  scole  of  Stratford  atte  Bo  we, 
For  french  of  Parys  was  ti  hire  vnknowe. 
At  mete  wel  ytaught  was  she  with  alle  ; 
She  leet  no  morsel  from  hir  lippe's  falle, 
Ne  wette  hire  fyngres  in  hir  sauce  depe. 
Wel  couthe  she  carie  a  morsel,  and  wel  kepe, 
That  no  drope  ne  fell  upon  hire  brest. 
In  curtesye  was  sette  ful  moche  hire  lest.^ 
Hire  ouer-lippe  wiped  she  so  clene. 
That  in  hire  cuppe  was  no  ferthing'*  sene 
Of  grece,  whan  she  dronken  hadde  hire  draught 
Ful  semely  after  hire  mete  she  raught,^ 
And  sikerly*  she  was  of  grete  disport, 
And  ful  plesant',  and  amyable  of  port, 
And  peyned '  hire  to  counterfete  **  chere 
Of  court,  and  ben  estatlich  of  manere', 
And  to  ben  holden  digne  ^  of  reuerence. 
But  for  to  speken  of  hire  conscience, 
She  was  so  charitable  and  so  pitous', 
She  wolde  wepe  if  that  she  saw  a  mous 
Caughte  in  a  trappe,  if  it  were  ded  or  bledde. 
Of  smale  houndes  hadde  she,  that  she  fedde 
With  rosted  flessh,  or  milk,  and  wastel  brede. . 

1  Called.         2  Neatly.         3  Her  pleasure.  *  Smallest  spot         5  K  r 

6  Surely.  ^  Took  pains.  »  To  imitate.  »  Wonriv. 


GEOFFREY   CHAUCER. 

But  sore  wept  she  if  on  of  hem  were  dede, 
Or  if  men  smote  it  with  a  yerde^  smerte  :  * 
And  al  was  conscience  and  tendre  herte. 

Ful  semely  hire  wimple  pynched  was  ; 
Hire  nose  tretis'^ ;  hire  eyen  grey  as  glas  ; 
Hire  mouth  ful  smale,  and  thereto  softe  and  red ; 
But  sikerly  she  hadde  a  fayre  forehed'. 
It  was  almost  a  spanne  brode  I  trowe  ; 
For  hardily  she  was  not  vndergrowe/ 

Ful  fetys '  was  hire  cloke,  as  I  was  war. 
Of  smale  corall'  aboute  hire  arm  she  bar 
A  pair  of  bedes,  gauded  al  with  grene  ; 
And  thereon  heng  a  broche  of  gold  ful  shene, 
On  which  was  first  writen  a  crouned  A, 
And  after,  Amor  vincit  omnia. 
Another  nonne  with  hire  hadde  she, 
That  was  hire  chapelleine,  and  preestes  thre. 


[From  the  Nonnes  Preestes  Talc] 

A  YERD  she  had,  enclose'd  all  about 
With  stickes,  and  a  drie  diche  without. 
In  which  she  had  a  cok  highte*  chaunteclere, 
In  all  the  land  of  croviing  n'as''  his  pere. 
His  vois  was  merier  than  the  mery  orgon, 
On  masse  daies  that  in  the  chirches  gon, 
Well  sikerer^  was  his  crowing  in  his  lodge, 
Than  is  a  clok,  or  any  abbey  orloge'. 

His  combe  was  redder  than  the  fin  corall', 
Enbattled,  as  it  were  a  castel  wall ; 
His  bill  was  black,  and  as  the  jet  it  shone  ; 
Like  azure  were  his  legges  and  his  tone  ^ ; 
His  nailes  whiter  than  the  lily  flour. 
And  like  the  burned  gold  was  his  colour'. 

1  Rod.  2  Smartly,  3  Straight.  *  Of  low  stature.  "  Neat 

«  Called  7  There  was  not.  8  More  distinct.  "  Toes. 


HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 


ROGER   ASCHAM. 

Roger  Ascham,  an  eminent  scholar,  the  preceptor  of  Lady  Jane  Gray,  of  Queen  Eliza- 
beth, and  of  other  eminent  persons,  was  bom  in  1515,  and  died  1568.  He  did  not  favor  the 
use  of  voluminous  grammars,  since  the  "Latin  Accidence,"  prepared  for  his  illustrious 
pupils,  contained  less  than  thirty  pages.  He  wrote  "  Toxophilus,"  a  treatise  upon  archery, 
in  which  the  necessity  of  exercise  and  recreation  to  the  scholar  is  discussed.  His  chief 
work  is  entitled  the  "  Schole-master,"  a  treatise  on  the  study  of  languages.  After  the 
lapse  of  more  than  three  centuries  his  views  are  mainly  in  accordance  with  those  of  the 
best  scholars  of  our  day. 

[The  benefit  of  a  sound  body  for  a  sound  mind.] 

This  perverse  judgment  of  men  hindereth  nothing  so  much  as 
learning,  because  commonly  those  that  be  unfittest  for  learning,  be 
chiefly  set  to  learning.  As  if  a  man  nowadays  have  two  sons,  the 
one  impotent,  weak,  sickly,  hsping,  stuttering,  and  stammering,  or 
having  any  mis-shape  in  his  body  ;  what  doth  the  father  of  such  one 
commonly  say  ?  This  boy  is  fit  for  nothing  else,  but  to  set  to  learn- 
ing and  make  a  priest  of,  as  who  would  say,  the  outcasts  of  the  world, 
having  neither  countenance,  tongue,  nor  wit  (for  of  a  perverse  body 
Cometh  commonly  a  perverse  mind),  be  good  enough  to  make  those 
men  of,  which  shall  be  appointed  to  preach  God's  holy  word,  and 
minister  his  blessed  sacraments,  besides  other  most  weighty  matters 
in  the  commonwealth  ;  put  oft  times,  and  worthily,  to  learned  men's 
discretion  and  charge  ;  when  rather  such  an  office  so  high  in  dignity, 
so  goodly  in  administration,  should  be  committed  to  no  man,  which 
should  not  have  a  countenance  full  of  comeliness,  to  allure  good 
men,  a  body  full  of  manly  authority  to  fear  ill  men,  a  wit  apt  for  all 
learning,  with  tongue  and  voice  able  to  persuade  all  men.  And  al- 
though few  such  men  as  these  can  be  found  in  a  commonwealth,  yet 
surely  a  goodly  disposed  man  will  both  in  his  mind  think  fit,  and 
with  all  his  study  labor  to  get  such  men  as  I  speak  of,  or  rather 
better,  if  better  can  be  gotten,  for  such  an  high  administration,  which 
is  most  properly  appointed  to  God's  own  matters  and  businesses. 

This  perverse  judgment  of  fathers,  as  concerning  the  fitness  and 
unfitness  of  their  children,  causeth  the  commonwealth  have  many 
unfit  ministers  :  and  seeing  that  ministers  be,  as  a  man  would  say, 
instruments  wherewith  the  commonwealth  doth  work  all  her  matters 
withal,  I  marvel  how  it  chanceth  that  a  poor  shoemaker  hath  so 
much  wit,  that  he  will  prepare  no  instrument  for  his  science,  neither 
knife  nor  awl,  nor  nothing  else,  which  is  not  very  fit  for  him.  The 
commonwealth  can  be  content  to  take  at  a  fond  father's  hand  the  riff- 


ROGER   ASCHAM.  —  SIR    WALTER   RALEIGH.  5 

raflf  of  the  world,  to  make  those  instruments  of  wherewithal  she 
should  work  the  highest  matters  under  heaven.  And  surely  an  awl 
of  lead  is  not  so  unprofitable  in  a  shoemaker's  shop,  as  an  unfit 
minister  made  of  gross  metal  is  unseemly  in  the  commonwealth. 
Fathers  in  old  time,  among  the  noble  Persians,  might  not  do  with 
their  children  as  they  thought  good,  but  as  the  judgment  of  the 
commonwealth  always  thought  best.  This  fault  of  fathers  bringeth 
many  a  blot  with  it,  to  the  great  deformity  of  the  commonwealth  : 
and  here  surely  I  can  praise  gentlewomen,  which  have  always  at 
hand  their  glasses,  to  see  if  anything  be  amiss,  and  so  will  amend 
it ;  yet  the  commonwealth,  having  the  glass  of  knowledge  in  every 
man's  hand,  doth  see  such  uncomeliness  in  it,  and  yet  winketh  at  it. 
This  fault,  and  many  such  like,  might  be  soon  wiped  away,  if  fathers 
would  bestow  their  children  always  on  that  thing  whereunto  nature 
hath  ordained  them  most  apt  and  fit.  For  if  youth  be  grafted 
straight  and  not  awry,  the  whole  commonwealth  will  flourish  there- 
after. When  this  is  done,  then  must  every  man  begin  to  be  more 
ready  to  amend  himself,  than  to  check  another,  measuring  their 
matters  with  that  wise  proverb  of  Apollo,  Know  thyself:  that  is 
to  say,  learn  to  know  what  thou  art  able,  fit,  and  apt  unto,  and  fol- 
Jow  that. 


SIR   WALTER   RALEIGH. 

Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  a  colonist,  adventurer,  courtier,  and  author,  fills  a  large  space  in 
the  annals  of  the  time  of  Queen  Elizabeth.  He  was  born  in  1552,  was  educated  at  Oxford, 
and  was  beheaded  in  1618.  While  in  prison  he  wrote  a  "  History  of  the  World,"  a  voluminous 
work,  no  longer  valuable,  but  far  superior  to  anything  that  had  been  written  at  the  time. 
His  poems  are  marked  by  energy  of  thought  and  considerable  felicity  of  expression  ;  and  if 
his  restless  temperament  had  allowed  him  to  devote  himself  to  the  quiet  pursuit  of  letters, 
it  is  probable  that  few  authors  of  his  age  would  have  earned  a  more  enduring  renown.  The 
poem  which  is  here  given  is  not  certainly  known  to  be  his,  but  of  its  authorship  there  is 
scarcely  any  doubt.     Five  stanzas  of  the  original  are  here  omitted. 

THE   LIE. 
I.  IL 

Go,  soul,  the  body's  guest,  Go,  tell  the  court  it  glows, 

Upon  a  thankless  arrant ; '  And  shines  like  rotten  wood  ; 

Fear  not  to  touch  the  best.  Go,  tell  the  church  it  shows 

The  truth  shall  be  thy  warrant ;  What's  good,  and  doth  no  good : 

Go,  since  I  needs  must  die.  If  church  and  court  reply. 

And  give  the  world  the  lie.  Then  give  them  both  the  lie 

'  Errand.     Arrant  and  errant  were  then  common  forms  of  the  word. 


HAND-BOOK    OF   ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 


VI. 

Tell  zeal  it  lacks  devotion, 

Tell  love  it  is  but  lust, 
Tell  time  it  is  but  motion, 
Tell  flesh  it  is  but  dust ; 
And  wish  them  not  reply, 
For  thou  must  give  the  lie. 

VII. 

Tell  age  it  daily  wasteth. 

Tell  honour  how  it  alters. 
Tell  beauty  how  she  blasteth, 
Tell  favour  how  it  falters. 
And  as  they  shall  reply. 
Give  every  one  the  lie. 

IX. 

Tell  physic  of  her  boldness, 
Tell  skill  it  is  pretension. 
Tell  charity  of  coldness, 
Tell  law  it  is  contention. 
And  as  they  do  reply, 
So  give  them  still  the  lie. 


Tell  fortune  of  her  blindness, 

Tell  nature  of  decay. 
Tell  friendship  of  unkindness, 
Tell  justice  of  delay. 
And  if  they  will  reply. 
Then  give  them  all  the  lie. 
xn. 
Tell  faith  it  fled  the  city. 

Tell  how  the  country  erreth. 
Tell,  manhood  shakes  off"  pity, 
Tell,  virtue  least  preferreth. 
And  if  they  do  reply, 
Spare  not  to  give  the  lie. 
xin. 
So  when  thou  hast,  as  I 

Commanded  thee,  done  blabbing 
Although  to  give  the  lie 

Deserves  no  less  than  stabbing; 
Yet  stab  at  thee  who  will. 
No  stab  the  soul  can  kill. 


EDMUND   SPENSER. 

Edmund  Spenser,  one  of  the  four  great  names  among  English  poets,  was  bom  in  Londot 
>n  1553,  3nd  died  in  1598.  His  verse  is  distinguished  by  an  unchecked  exuberance  of  fancy 
and  an  exquisite  sense  of  melody.  His  longest  work,  "The  Faerie  Queene,"  an  elaborate 
panegyric  in  allegory  upon  Elizabeth,  has  many  splendid  passages,  but  its  prolixity  carries 
the  reader  on  far  beyond  the  reasonable  limits  of  a  work  of  art.  An  ingenious  explai;aticn  of 
the  personages  in  this  poem  and  in  "  Colin  Clout  "  will  be  found  in  The  Atlantic  Monthly, 
vol.  ii.  p.  674. 

Born  at  a  time  when  the  patronage  of  the  public  was  insufficient  to  sustain  an  author, 
Spenser  had  full  opportunity,  between  the  parsimony  of  his  royal  mistress  and  the  tardi- 
ness of  her  minister,  to  ponder  the  wisdom  of  the  proverb,  "Put  not  your  trust  in  pniices. " 
The  queen  gave  him  a  pension,  which  was  irregularly  paid,  and  a  confiscated  estate  in  Ire- 
land, from  which  he  was  driven  in  terror.     He  died  soon  after  his  escape  to  London. 

BOOK   I.      CANTO   I. 


A  GENTLE  knight  was  pricking  on  the  plaine, 
Ycladd  in  mightie  armes  and  silver  shielde. 
Wherein  old  dints  of  deepe  woundes  did  remaine. 
The  cruel  markes  of  many  a  bloody  fielde ; 


EDMUND   SPENSER. 

Yet  armes  till  that  time  did  he  never  wield : 

His  angry  steede  did  chide  his  foming  bitt, 

As  much  disdayning  to  the  ciirbe  to  yield : 

Full  iolly  knight  he  seemd,  and  faire  did  sitt, 

As  one  for  knightly  giusts  and  fierce  encounters  fitt. 

II. 
And  on  his  brest  a  bloodie  crosse  he  bore, 
The  deare  remembrance  of  his  dying  Lord, 
For  whose  sweete  sake  that  glorious  badge  he  wore, 
And  dead,  as  living,  ever  him  ador'd  : 
Upon  his  shield  the  like  was  also  scor'd, 
For  soveraine  hope,  which  in  his  helpe  he  had. 
Right,  faithfull,  true  he  was  in  deede  and  word ; 
But  of  his  cheere  did  seeme  too  solemne  sad ; 
Yet  nothing  did  he  dread,  but  ever  was  ydrad. 

IV. 

A  lovely  ladie  rode  him  faire  beside, 
Upon  a  lowly  asse  mors  white  then  snow ; 
Yet  she  much  whiter  ;  but  the  same  did  hide 
Under  a  vele,  that  wimpled  was  full  low ; 
And  over  all  a  blacke  stole  shee  did  throw, 
As  one  that  inly  mournd  ;  so  was  she  sad, 
And  heavie  sate  upon  her  palfrey  slow ; 
Seemed  in  heart  some  hidden  care  she  had ; 
And  by  her  in  a  line  a  milke-white  lambe  she  lad. 

y      \  VIII. 

And  foorth  they  passe,  with  pleasure  forward  led, 
loying  to  heare  the  birdes  sweete  harmony. 
Which  therein  shrouded  from  the  tempest  dred, 
Seemd  in  their  song  to  scorne  the  cruell  sky. 
Much  can  they  praise  the  trees  so  straight  and  hy, 
The  sayling  pine  ;   the  cedar  proud  and  tall  ; 
The  vine-propp  elme  ;  the  poplar  never  dry  ; 
The  builder  oake,  sole  king  of  forrests  all ; 
The  aspine  good  for  staves  ;  the  cypresse  funerall ; 

IX. 

The  laurell,  meed  of  mightie  conquerours 
And  poets  sage  ;  the  firre  that  weepeth  still ; 
The  willow,  worne  of  forlorne  paramours  ; 
The  eugh,  obedient  to  the  benders  will ; 


HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

The  birch  for  shaftes  ;  the  sallow  for  the  mill ; 

The  mirrhe  sweete-bleeding  in  the  bitter  wound  ; 

The  warlike  beech  ;  the  ash  for  nothing  ill ; 

The  fruitful  olive  ;  and  the  platane  round  ; 

The  carver  holme  ;  the  maple,  seldom  inward  sound. 


[The  Palace  of  Morpheus.] 
XXXIX. 

He,  making  speedy  way  through  spersed  ayre, 

And  through  the  world  of  waters  wide  and  deepe, 

To  Morpheus  house  doth  hastily  repaire, 

Amid  the  bowels  of  the  earth  full  steepe. 

And  low,  where  dawning  day  doth  never  peepe, 

His  dwelling  is  ;  there  Tethys  his  wet  bed 

Doth  ever  wash,  and  Cynthia  still  doth  steepe 

In  silver  deaw  his  ever-droupipig  hed. 

Whiles  sad  Night  over  him  her  mantle  black  doth  spred ; 

XL. 

Whose  double  gates  he  findeth  locked  fast ; 

The  one  faire  fram'd  of  burnisht  yvory. 

The  other  all  with  silver  overcast ; 

And  wakeful  dogges  before  them  farre  doe  lye, 

Watching  to  banish  Care  their  enimy. 

Who  oft  is  wont  to  trouble  gentle  Sleepe. 

By  them  the  sprite  doth  passe  in  quietly, 

And  unto  Morpheus  comes,  whom  drowned  deepe 

In  drowsie  fit  he  findes  ;  of  nothing  he  takes  keepe. 

XLI. 

And,  more,  to  lulle  him  in  his  slumber  soft, 

A  trickling  streame  from  high  rock  tumbling  downe, 

And  ever-drizling  raine  upon  the  loft, 

Mixt  with  a  murmuring  winde,  much  like  the  sowne 

Of  swarming  bees,  did  cast  him  in  a  swowne. 

No  other  noyse,  nor  peoples  troublous  cryes. 

As  still  are  wont  t'  annoy  the  walled  towne. 

Might  there  be  heard  :  but  carelesse  Quiet  lyes 

Wrapt  in  eternall  silence  farre  from  enimyes. 


EDMUXD   SPENSER. 

CANTO   VI. 

[The  Heroine  meets  the  Sylvan  Deities.] 

IX. 

The  wyld  wood-gods,  arrived  in  the  place, 

There  find  the  virgin,  doolfull,  desolate. 

With  ruffled  rayments,  and  fayre  blubbred  face, 

As  her  outrageous  foe  had  left  her  late  ; 

And  trembling  yet  through  feare  of  former  hate  : 

All  stand  amazed  at  so  un'couth  sight. 

And  gin  to  pittie  her  unhappie  state  ; 

All  stand  astonied  at  her  beauty  bright. 

In  their  rude  eyes  unworthy  of  so  wofull  plight. 

XIII. 

Their  harts  she  ghesseth  by  their  humble  guise, 

And  yieldes  her  to  extremitie  of  time  : 

So  from  the  ground  she  fearlesse  doth  arise. 

And  walketh  forth  without  suspect  of  crime  : 

They,  all  as  glad  as  birdes  of  ioyous  pryme. 

Thence  led  her  fortli,  about  her  dauncing  round, 

Shouting,  and  singing  all  a  shepheards  ryme  ; 

And  with  greene  braunches  strowing  all  the  ground, 

Do  worship  her  as  queene  with  olive  girlond  cround. 

XIV. 

And  all  the  way  their  merry  pipes  they  sound, 
That  all  the  woods  with  double  echo  ring ; 
And  with  their  horned  feet  doe  weare  the  ground, 
Leaping  Hke  wanton  kids  in  pleasant  spring. 
So  towards  old  Sylvanus  they  her  bring ; 
Who,  with  the  noyse  awaked,  commeth  out 
To  weet  the  cause,  his  weake  steps  governing 
And  aged  limbs  on  cypresse  stadle  '  stout ; 
And  with  an  yvie  twyne  his  waste  is  girt  about. 

XVI. 

The  wood-borne  people  fall  before  her  flat, 
And  worship  her  as  goddesse  of  the  wood ; 
And  old  Sylvanus  selfe  bethinkes  not,  what 
To  thinke  of  wight  so  fayre  ;  but  gazing  stood 
In  doubt  to  deeme  her  borne  of  earthly  brood  : 

^  A  support. 


lO  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

Sometimes  dame  Venus  selfe  he  seemes  to  see ; 

But  Venus  never  had  so  sober  mood : 

Sometimes  Diana  he  her  takes  to  be  ; 

But  misseth  bow  and  shaftes,  and  buskins  to  her  knee. 

BOOK   II.      CANTO   XIL 

[The  Harmony  of  Nature.] 
LXX. 

Eftsoones  they  heard  a  most  melodious  sound, 

Of  all  that  mote  delight  a  daintie  eare, 

Such  as  attonce  might  not  on  Hving  ground, 

Save  in  this  paradise,  be  heard  elsewhere : 

Right  hard  it  was  for  wight  which  did  it  heare. 

To  read  what  manner  musicke  that  mote  bee  ; 

For  all  that  pleasing  is  to  living  eare 

Was  there  consorted  in  one  harmonee  ; 

Birdes,  voices,  instruments,  windes,  waters,  all  agree. 

LXXI. 

The  ioyous  birdes,  shrouded  in  chearefuU  shade, 
Their  notes  unto  the  voice  attempred  sweet ; 
Th'  angelicall  soft  trembling  voyces  made 
To  th'  instruments  divine  respondence  meet ; 
The  silver-sounding  instruments  did  meet 
With  the  base  murmure  of  the  waters  fall ; 
The  waters  fall  with  difference  discreet. 
Now  soft,  now  loud,  unto  the  wind  did  call ; 
The  gentle  warbling  wind  low  answered  to  all. 


RICHARD    HOOKER. 

Richard  Hooker,  an  eminent  divine,  was  born  near  Exeter,  in  1553,  and  died  in  1600. 
His  life  was  marked  by  no  striking  incidents.  His  chief  work  on  "  Ecclesiastical  Polity  "  ii 
a  work  of  great  erudition  and  eloquence.  In  the  words  of  Hallam,  ' '  So  stately  and  grace- 
ful is  the  march  of  his  per  ods,  so  various  the  fall  of  his  musical  cadences  upon  the  ear,  so 
rich  in  images,  so  condensed  in  sentences,  so  grave  and  noble  his  diction,  so  little  is  there 
of  vulgarity  in  his  racy  idiom,  of  pedantry  in  his  learned  phrase,  that  I  know  not  whether 
any  later  writ2r  has  more  admirably  displayed  the  capacities  of  our  language,  or  produced 
passages  more  worthy  of  comparison  with  the  splendid  monuments  of  antiquity." 

CHURCH    MUSIC. 

Touching  musical  harmony,  whether  by  instrument  or  by  voice, 
it  being  but  of  high  and  low  in  sounds  a  due  proportionable  disposi- 
tioU;  such  notwithstanding  is  the  force   thereof,  and  so  pleasing 


RICHARD    HOOKER.  II 

effects  it  hath  in  that  very  part  of  man  which  is  most  divine,  that 
some  have  been  thereby  induced  to  think  that  the  soul  itself  by 
nature  is,  or  hath  in  it,  harmony  ;  a  thing  which  delighteth  all  ages, 
and  beseemeth  all  states  ;  a  thing  as  seasonable  in  grief  as  in 
joy ;  as  decent,  being  added  unto  actions  of  greatest  weight  and 
solemnity,  as  being  used  when  men  most  sequester  themselves  from 
action.  The  reason  hereof  is  an  admirable  facility  which  music  hath 
to  express  and  represent  to  the  mind,  more  inwardly  than  any  other 
sensible  mean,  the  very  standing,  rising  and  falling,  the  very  steps 
and  inflections  every  way,  the  turns  and  varieties  of  all  passions 
whereunto  the  mind  is  subject ;  yea,  so  to  imitate  them,  that, 
whether  it  resemble  unto  us  the  same  state  wherein  our  minds 
already  are,  or  a  clean  contrary,  we  are  not  more  contentedly  by  the 
one  confirmed,  than  changed  and  led  away  by  the  other.  In  har- 
mony, the  very  image  and  character  even  of  virtue  and  vice  is 
perceived,  the  mind  delighted  with  their  resemblances,  and  brought, 
by  having  them  often  iterated,  into  a  love  of  the  things  themselves. 
For  which  cause  there  is  nothing  more  contagious  and  pestilent 
than  some  kinds  of  harmony  ;  than  some,  nothing  more  strong  and 
potent  unto  good.  And  that  there  is  such  a  difference  of  one  kind 
from  another,  we  need  no  proof  but  our  own  experience,  inasmuch 
as  we  are  at  the  hearing  of  some  more  inclined  unto  sorrow  and 
heaviness,  of  some  more  mollified  and  softened  in  mind ;  one  kind 
apter  to  stay  and  settle  us,  another  to  move  and  stir  our  affections  ; 
there  is  that  draweth  to  a  marvellous  grave  and  sober  mediocrity ; 
there  is  also  that  carrieth,  as  it  were,  into  ecstasies,  fiUing  the  mind 
with  a  heavenly  joy,  and  for  the  time  in  a  manner  severing  it  from 
the  body ;  so  that,  although  we  lay  altogether  aside  the  considera- 
tion of  ditty  or  matter,  the  very  harmony  of  sounds  being  framed  in 
due  sort,  and  carried  from  the  ear  to  the  spiritual  faculties  of  our 
souls,  is,  by  a  native  puissance  and  efficacy,  greatly  available  to 
bring  to  a  perfect  temper  whatsoever  is  there  troubled  ;  apt  as  well 
to  quicken  the  spirits  as  to  allay  that  which  is  too  eager ;  sovereign 
against  melancholy  and  despair ;  forcible  to  draw  forth  tears  of 
devotion,  if  the  mind  be  such  as  can  yield  them  ;  able  both  to  move 
and  to  moderate  all  affections.  The  prophet  David  having,  there- 
fore, singular  knowledge,  not  in  poetry  alone,  but  in  music  also, 
judged  them  both  to  be  things  most  necessary  for  the  house  of  God, 
left  behind  him  to  that  purpose  a  number  of  divinely  indited  poems, 
and  was  further  the  author  of  adding  unto  poetry  melody  in  public 
prayer ;  melody,  both  vocal  and  instrumental,  for  the  raising  up  of 


12  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

men's  hearts,  and  the  sweetening  of  the  affections  towards  God 
In  which  considerations  the  church  of  Christ  doth  likewise  at  this 
present  day  retain  it  as  an  ornament  to  God's  service,  and  a  help  to 
our  own  devotion.  They  which,  under  pretence  of  the  law  cere- 
monial abrogated,  require  the  abrogation  of  instrumental  music, 
approving,  nevertheless,  the  use  of  vocal  melody  to  remain,  must 
shew  some  reason  wherefore  the  one  should  be  thought  a  legal  cere- 
mony, and  not  the  other.  In  church  music,  curiosity  or  ostentation 
of  art,  wanton,  or  light,  or  unsuitable  harmony,  such  as  only  pleaseth 
the  ear,  and  doth  not  naturally  serve  to  the  very  kind  and  degree  of 
those  impressions  which  the  matter  that  goeth  with  it  leaveth,  or  is 
apt  to  leave,  in  men's  minds,  doth  rather  blemish  and  disgrace  that 
we  do,  than  add  either  beauty  or  furtherance  unto  it.  On  the  other 
side,  the  faults  prevented,  the  force  and  efficacy  of  the  thing  itself, 
when  it  drowneth  not  utterly,  but  fitly  suiteth  with  matter  altogether 
sounding  to  the  praise  of  God,  is  in  truth  most  admirable,  and  doth 
much  edify,  if  not  the  understanding,  because  it  teacheth  not,  yet 
surely  the  affection,  because  therein  it  worketh  much.  They  must 
have  hearts  very  dry  and  tough,  from  whom  the  melody  of  the 
psalms  doth  not  sometime  draw  that  wherein  a  mind  religiously 
affected  delighteth. 


FRANCIS   BACON. 

Francis  Bacon,  Lord  Venilam,  an  eminent  philosopher  and  jurist,  was  bom  in  London, 
in  1561,  and  died  in  1626.  He  was  the  son  of  Sir  Nicholas  Bacon,  lord  keeper ;  and  his 
uncle,  Lord  Burleigh,  and  his  cousin,  Sir  Robert  Cecil,  were  ministers  of  Queen  Elizabeth, 
so  that  from  early  youth  he  was  intimate  with  the  most  eminent  persons  of  his  time.  He 
was  educated  at  Trinity  College,  Cambridge.  His  intellect  in  scope  and  power  has,  prob- 
ably, never  been  excelled,  certainly  not  by  any  of  our  English  race.  Besides  the  Essays, 
which  are  wonderful  specimens  of  crystallized  thought,  his  principal  works  are  "  On  the 
Advancement  of  Learning,"  and  the  ^^ Novum  Organoft,"  a  refutation,  or  rather  sub- 
stitute, for  the  philosophy  of  Aristotle.  The  later  years  of  this  illustrious  man  were  passed 
in  disgrace  on  account  of  h's  corrupt  practices  as  judge.  The  lines  of  Pope  will  be  re- 
membered, — 

"If  parts  allure  thee,  think  how  Bacon  shined. 
The  wisest,  brightest,  meanest  of  mankind." 
A  very  thorough  and  interesting  summary  of  his  life  and  works  may  be  read  in  the  Essays 
of  Macaulay.     A  more  favorable  view  of  his  character,  not  wholly  successful  as  a  defence, 
but  not  without  plausibility,  is  presented  in  W.  Hepworth  Dixon's  "Personal  History  c;f 
Lord  Bacon." 

OF   CUNNING. 

We  take  cunning  for  a  sinister,  or  crooked  wisdom;  and  cer- 
tainly there  is  a  great  difference  between  a  cunning  man  and  a  wise 


FRANCIS    BACON.  1 3 

man,  not  only  in  point  of  honesty,  but  in  point  of  ability.  There  be 
that  can  pack  the  cards,  and  yet  cannot  play  well ;  so  there  are  some 
that  are  good  in  canvasses  and  factions,  that  are  otherwise  weak 
men.  Again,  it  is  one  thing  to  understand  persons,  and  another 
thing  to  understand  matters  ;  for  many  are  perfect  in  men's  humors, 
that  are  not  greatly  capable  of  the  real  part  of  business,  which  is  the 
constitution  of  one  that  hath  studied  men  more  than  books.  Such 
men  are  fitter  for  practice  than  for  counsel,  and  they  are  good  but  in 
their  own  alley  :  turn  them  to  new  men,  and  they  have  lost  their 
aim  ;  so  as  the  old  rule,  to  know  a  fool  from  a  wise  man,  "  Mitte 
ambos  nudos  ad  ignotos,  et  videbis,"  *  doth  scarce  hold  for  them. 
And  because  these  cunning  men  are  like  haberdashers  of  small 
wares,  it  is  not  amiss  to  set  forth  their  shop. 

Another  is,  that  when  you  have  anything  to  obtain  of  present 
despatch,  you  entertain  and  amuse  the  party  with  whom  you  deal 
with  some  other  discourse,  that  he  be  not  too  much  awake  to  make 
objections.  I  knew  a  counsellor  and  secretary,  that  never  came  to 
Queen  Elizabeth  of  England  with  bills  to  sign,  but  he  would  always 
first  put  her  into  some  discourse  of  state,  that  she  might  the  less 
mind  the  bills. 

The  like  surprise  may  be  made  by  moving  things  when  the  party 
is  in  haste,  and  cannot  stay  to  consider  advisedly  of  that  is  moved. 

If  a  man  would  cross  a  business  that  he  doubts  some  other  would 
handsomely  and  effectually  move,  let  him  pretend  to  wish  it  well, 
and  move  it  himself  in  such  sort  as  may  foil  it. 

The  breaking  off  in  the  midst  of  that  one  was  about  to  say,  as  if 
he  took  himself  up,  breeds  a  greater  appetite  in  him  with  whom  you 
confer  to  know  more. 

And  because  it  works  better  when  anything  seemeth  to  be  gotten 
from  you  by  question,  than  if  you  offer  it  of  yourself,  you  may  lay  a 
bait  for  a  question,  by  showing  another  visage  and  countenance 
than  you  are  wont ;  to  the  end,  to  give  occasion  for  the  party  to  ask 
what  the  matter  is  of  the  change,  as  Nehemiah  did,  —  "  And  I  had 
not  before  that  time  been  sad  before  the  king." 

In  things  that  are  tender  and  unpleasing,  it  is  good  to  break  the 
ice  by  some  whose  words  are  of  less  weight,  and  to  reserve  the  more 
weighty  voice  to  come  in  as  by  chance,  so  that  he  may  be  asked  the 
question  upon  the  other's  speech  ;  as  Narcissus  did,  in  relating  to 
Claudius  the  marriage  of  Messalina  and  Silius.'^ 

1  "  Send  both  naked  to  strangers,  and  thou  shalt  know."         2  Tacit.  Ann.  xi.  29,  seq 


14  HAND-BOOK    OF   ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

In  things  that  a  man  would  not  be  seen  in  himself,  it  is  a  point  of 
cunning  to  borrow  the  name  of  the  world  ;  as  to  say,  "  The  world 
says,"  or,  "  There  is  a  speech  abroad." 

I  know  one  that  when  he  wrote  a  letter,  he  would  put  that 
which  was  most  material  in  the  postscript,  as  if  it  had  been  a  by- 
matter. 

I  knew  another  that  when  he  came  to  have  speech,  he  would  pass 
over  that  he  intended  most,  and  go  forth,  and  come  back  again,  and 
speak  of  it  as  a  thing  he  had  almost  forgot. 

Some  procure  themselves  to  be  surprised  at  such  times  as  it  is 
like  the  party,  that  they  work  upon,  will  suddenly  come  uj^on  them, 
and  be  found  with  a  letter  in  their  hand,  or  doing  somewhat  which 
they  are  not  accustomed,  to  the  end  they  may  be  apposed  *  of  those 
things  which  of  themselves  they  are  desirous  to  utter. 

It  is  a  point  of  cunning  to  let  fall  those  words  in  a  man's  own 
name  which  he  would  have  another  man  learn  and  use,  and  there- 
upon take  advantage.  I  know  two  that  were  competitors  for  the 
secretary's  place,  in  Queen  Ehzabeth's  time,  and  yet  kept  good 
quarter '^  between  themselves,  and  would  confer  one  with  another 
upon  the  business  ;  and  the  one  of  them  said,  that  to  be  a  secretary  in 
the  declination  of  a  monarchy  was  a  ticklish  thing,  and  that  he  did  not 
affect  ^  it ;  the  other  straight  caught  up  those  words,  and  discoursed 
with  divers  of  his  friends,  that  he  had  no  reason  to  desire  to  be  secre- 
tary in  the  declining  of  a  monarchy.  The  first  man  took  hold  of  it, 
and  found  means  it  was  told  the  queen  ;  who,  hearing  of  a  declina- 
tion of  monarchy,  took  it  so  ill,  as  she  would  never  after  hear  of 
the  other's  suit. 

There  is  a  cunning  which  we  in  England  call  "  the  turning  of  the 
cat  in  the  pan  ;  "•*  which  is,  when  that  which  a  man  says  to  another, 
he  lays  it  as  if  another  had  said  it  to  him  ;  and,  to  say  truth,  it  is 
not  easy,  when  such  a  matter  passed  between  two,  to  make  it  appear 
from  which  of  them  it  first  moved  and  began. 

It  is  a  way  that  some  men  have,  to  glance  and  dart  at  others 
by  justifying  themselves  by  negatives  ;  as  to  say,  "  This  I  do  not ;  " 
as  Tigellinus  did  towards  Burrhus,  saying,  "  Se  non  diversas  spes, 
sed  incolumitatem  imperatoris  simpliciter  spectare." ' 

Some  have  in  readiness  so  many  tales  and  stories,  as  there  is 
nothing  they  would  insinuate  but  they  can  warp  it  into  a  tale  ;  which 

1  Questioned.  2  Amity,  concord.  3  Aim  at,  endeavor  after. 

■*  Cat  in  the  pan.     Pan-cake. 

'  "  He  did  not  look  to  various  hopes,  but  solely  to  the  safety  of  the  emperor." 


FRANCIS   BACON.  I  5 

serveth  both  to  keep  themselves  more  in  '  guard,  and  to  make  others 
carry  it  with  more  pleasure. 

It  is  a  good  point  of  cunning  for  a  man  to  shape  the  answer  he 
would  have  in  his  own  words  and  propositions,  for  it  makes  the 
other  party  stick  the  less. 

It  is  strange  how  long  some  men  will  lie  in  wait  to  speak  some- 
what they  desire  to  say,  and  how  far  about  they  will  fetch,  and  how 
many  other  matters  they  will  beat  over  to  come  near  it ;  it  is  a  thing 
of  great  patience,  but  yet  of  much  use. 

A  sudden,  bold,  and  unexpected  question  doth  many  times  sur- 
prise a  man,  and  lay  him  open.  Like  to  him  that,  having  changed 
his  name,  and  walking  in  Paul's,  another  suddenly  came  behind 
him,  and  called  him  by  his  true  name,  whereat  straightways  he 
looked  back. 

But  these  small  wares  and  petty  points  of  cunning  are  infinite,  and 
it  were  a  good  deed  to  make  a  list  of  them  ;  for  that  nothing  doth 
more  hurt  in  a  state  than  that  cunning  men  pass  for  wise. 

But  certainly  some  there  are  that  know  the  resorts  -  and  falls  ^  of 
business,  that  cannot  sink  into  the  main  of  it :  like  a  house  that  hath 
convenient  stairs  and  entries,  but  never  a  fair  room  :  therefore  you 
shall  see  them  find  out  pretty*  looses^  in  the  conclusion,  but  are 
no  ways  able  to  examine  or  debate  matters :  and  yet  commonly  they 
take  advantage  of  their  inability,  and  would  be  thought  wits  of  direc- 
tion. Some  build  rather  upon  the  abusing''  of  others,  and  (as  we 
now  say)  putting  tricks  upon  them,  than  upon  the  soundness  of  their 
own  proceedings  ;  but  Solomon  saith,  "  Prudens  advertit  ad  gressus 
suos  ;  stultus  divertit  ad  dolos."  ^ 

OF   GARDENS. 

God  Almighty  first  planted  a  garden,  and,  indeed,  it  is  the  purest 
of  human  pleasures  ;  it  is  the  greatest  refreshment  to  the  spirits  of 
man,  without  which  building  and  palaces  are  but  gross  handiworks  : 
and  a  man  shall  ever  see,  that  when  ages  grow  to  civility  and 
elegancy  men  come  tq  build  stately,  sooner  than  to  garden  finely  ;  as 
if  gardening  were  the  greater  perfection.  I  do  hold  it,  in  the  royal 
ordering  of  gardens,  there  ought  to  be  gardens  for  all  the  months  in 
the  year,  in  which,  severally,  things  of  beauty  may  be  then  in  sea- 

1  On.  2  Springs.  3  Chances.  *  Suitable,  fit 

'*  Issues  ;  escapes  from  restraint,  such  as  is  difficulty  or  perplexity  in  deliberation. 
•*  Abuse.     To  deceive. 
'  "The  wise  man  looks  to  his  steps ;  the  fool  turns  aside  to  the  snare." 


1 6  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

son.  For  December  and  January,  and  the  latter  part  of  November, 
you  must  take  such  things  as  are  green  all  winter ;  holly,  ivy,  bays, 
juniper,  cypress  trees,  yew,  pines,  fir  trees,  rosemary,  lavender  ;  peri- 
winkle, the  white,  the  purple,  and  the  blue  ;  germander,  flag,  orange 
trees,  lemon  trees,  and  myrtles,  if  they  be  stoved ;  and  sweet  marjo- 
ram, warm  set.  There  followeth,  for  the  latter  part  of  January  and 
February,  the  mezereon  tree,  which  then  blossoms  ;  crocus  vernus, 
both  the  yellow  and  the  gray ;  primroses,  anemones,  the  early  tulip, 
hyacinthus  orientalis,  chamairis,  fritellaria.  For  March  there  come 
violets,  especially  the  single  blue,  which  are  the  earliest ;  the  early 
daffodil,  the  daisy,  the  almond  tree  in  blossom,  the  peach  tree  in 
blossom,  the  cornehan  tree  in  blossom,  sweetbrier.  In  April,  fol- 
low the  double  white  violet,  the  wall-flower,  the  stock-gilliflower,  the 
cowslip,  flower-de-luces,^  and  lilies  of  all  natures  ;  rosemary  flowers, 
the  tulip,  the  double  peony,  the  pale  daffodil,  the  French  honey- 
suckle, the  cherry  tree  in  blossom,  the  damascene  and  plum  trees 
in  blossom,  the  white  thorn  in  leaf,  the  lilac  tree.  In  May  and  June 
come  pinks  of  all  sorts,  especially  the  blush  pink  ;  roses  of  all  kinds, 
except  the  musk,  which  comes  later ;  honeysuckle,  strawberries, 
bugloss,  columbine,  the  French  marigold,  flos  Africanus,  cherry  tree 
in  fruit,  ribes,^  figs  in  fruit,  rasps, '^  vine  flowers,  lavender  in  flowers, 
the  sweet  satyrian,  with  the  white  flower ;  herba  muscaria,  lilium 
convallium,  the  apple  tree  in  blossom.  In  July  come  gilliflowers 
of  all  varieties,  musk  roses,  the  lime  tree  in  blossom,  early  pears, 
and  plums  in  fruit,  gennitings,*  quodlins.^  In  August  come  plums 
of  all  sorts  in  fruit,  pears,  apricocks,  barberries,  filberds,  musk- 
melons,  monks-hoods,  of  all  colors.  In  September  come  grapes, 
apples,  poppies  of  all  colors,  peaches,  melocotones,**  nectarines, 
cornelians,'  wardens,*  quinces.  In  October  and  the  beginning  of 
November  come  services,^  medlars,  bullaces,  roses  cut  or  removed 
to  come  late,  hollyoaks,^"  and  such  like.  These  particulars  are  for 
the  climate  of  London  ;  but  my  meaning  is  perceived,  that  you  may 
have  ver perpetuuirt^^  as  the  place  affords. 

And  because  the  breath  of  flowers  is  far  sweeter  in  the  air  (where 
it  comes  and  goes,  like  the  warbhng  of  music)  than  in  the  hand, 
therefore  nothing  is  more  fit  for  that  delight,  than  to  know  what  be 
the  flowers  and  plants  that  do  best  perfume  the  air.  Roses,  damask 
and  red,  are  fast  *'  flowers  of  their  smells  ;  so  that  you  may  walk  by  a 

1  Flower-de-luce.  2  Currants.  ^  Raspberries.  <  Jennethings. 

■'•  Codlins.  "  A  large  peach.  "^  Cherries.  «  a  large  keeping  pear. 

"  A  plant  and  fruit  (Sorbus).       1°  Hollyhocks.       11  A  perpetual  spring.       12  Tenacious. 


FRANCIS   BACON.  I7 

whole  row  of  them,  and  find  nothing  of  their  sweetness,  yea,  though 
it  be  in  a  morning's  dew.  Bays,  likewise,  yield  no  smell  as  they 
grow,  rosemary  little,  nor  sweet  marjoram  ;  that  which,  above  all 
others,  yields  the  sweetest  smell  in  the  air,  is  the  violet ;  especially 
the  white  double  violet,  which  comes  twice  a  year  —  about  the  mid- 
dle of  April,  and  about  Bartholomew-tide.  Next  to  that  is  the  musk 
rose  ;  then  the  strawberry  leaves  dying,  with  a  most  excellent  cordial 
smell ;  then  the  flowers  of  the  vines  —  it  is  a  little  dust  hke  the  dust 
of  a  bent,^  which  grows  upon  the  cluster  in  the  first  coming  forth  — 
then  sweetbrier,  then  wall-flowers,  which  are  very  delightful  to  be 
set  under  a  parlor  or  lower  chamber  window  ;  then  pinks  and  gilli- 
flowers,^  especially  the  matted  pink  and  clove  gilliflowers  ;  then  the 
flowers  of  the  lime  tree  ;  then  the  honeysuckles,  so  they  be  some- 
what afar  off.  Of  bean-flowers  I  speak  not,  because  they  are  field 
flowers  ;  but  those  which  perfume  the  air  most  delightfully,  not 
passed  by  as  the  rest,  but  being  trodden  upon  and  crushed,  are 
three,  that  is,  burnet,  wild  thyme,  and  water-mints  ;  therefore  you 
are  to  set  whole  alleys  of  them,  to  have  the  pleasure  when  you  walk 
or  tread. 

For  gardens  (speaking  of  those  which  are,  indeed,  prince-like, 
as  we  have  done  of  buildings),  the  contents  ought  not  well  to  be 
under  thirty  acres  of  ground,  and  to  be  divided  into  three  parts  ;  a 
green  in  the  entrance,  a  heath  or  desert  in  the  going  forth,  and  the 
main  garden  in  the  midst,  besides  alleys  on  both  sides ;  and  I  like 
well  that  four  acres  of  ground  be  assigned  to  the  green,  six  to  the 
heath,  four  and  four  to  either  side,  and  twelve  to  the  main  garden. 
The  green  hatli  two  pleasures  ;  the  one,  because  nothing  is  more 
pleasant  to  the  eye  than  green  grass  kept  finely  shorn  ;  the  other, 
because  it  will  give  you  a  fair  alley  in  the  midst,  by  which  you  may 
go  in  front  upon  a  stately  edge,  which  is  to  enclose  the  garden  :  but 
because  the  alley  will  be  long,  and,  in  great  heat  of  the  year,  or  day, 
you  ought  not  to  buy  the  shade  in  the  garden  by  going  in  the  sun 
through  the  green,  therefore  you  are,  of  either  side  the  green,  to 
plant  a  covert  alley,  upon  carpenters'  work,  about  twelve  feet  in 
height,  by  which  you  may  go  in  shade  into  the  garden.  As  for  the 
making  of  knots,  or  figures,  with  divers -colored  earths,  that  they 
may  lie  under  the  windows  of  the  ^louse  on  that  side  on  which  the 
garden  stands,  they  be  but  toys  :  you  may  see  as  good  sights  many 

1  Bent-grass. 

2  This  name  probably  comes  from  the  old  French  g^ilofre  for  girojle,  a  clove,  derived 
from  caryophyllus. 

2 


1 8  HAND-BOOK   OF  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

times  in  tarts.  The  garden  is  best  to  be  square,  encompassed  on  all 
the  four  sides  with  a  stately  arched  hedge  ;  the  arches  to  be  upon 
pillars  of  carpenters'  work,  of  some  ten  feet  high,  and  six  feet  broad, 
and  the  spaces  between  of  the  same  dimensions  with  the  breadth  of 
the  arch.  Over  the  arches  let  there  be  an  entire  hedge  of  some 
four  feet  high,  framed  also  upon  carpenters'  work  ;  and  upon  the 
upper  hedge,  over  every  arch,  a  little  turret,  with-  a  belly  enough  to 
receive  a  cage  of  birds :  and  over  every  space  between  the  arches 
some  other  little  figure,  with  broad  plates  of  round  colored  glass 
gilt,  for  the  sun  to  play  upon :  but  this  hedge  I  intend  to  be  raised 
upon  a  bank,  not  steep,  but  gently  slope,  of  some  six  feet,  set  all 
with  flowers.  Also,  I  understand  that  this  square  of  the  garden 
should  not  be  the  whole  breadth  of  the  ground,  but  to  leave  on 
either  side  ground  enough  for  diversity  of  side  alleys,  unto  which  the 
two  covert  alleys  of  the  green  may  deliver  you  ;  but  there  must  be 
no  alleys  with  hedges  at  either  end  of  this  great  enclosure  —  not  at 
the  hither  end,  for  letting*  your  prospect  upon  this  fair  hedge  from 
the  green  —  nor  at  the  farther  end,  for  letting  your  prospect  from  the 
hedge  through  the  arches  upon  the  heath. 

For  the  ordering  of  the  ground  within  the  great  hedge,  I  leave  it 
to  variety  of  device,  advising,  nevertheless,  that  whatsoever  form 
you  cast  it  into  first,  it  be  not  too  busy,^  or  full  of  work  ;  wherein  I, 
for  my  part,  do  not  like  images  cut  out  in  juniper  or  other  garden 
stuff —  they  be  for  children.  Little  low  hedges,  round  like  welts,^ 
with  some  pretty  pyramids,  I  like  well ;  and  in  some  places  fair 
columns,  upon  frames  of  carpenters'  work.  I  would  also  have  the 
alleys  spacious  and  fair.  You"  may  have  closer  alleys  upon  the  side 
grounds,  but  none  in  the  main  garden.  I  wish,  also,  in  the  verj- 
middle,  a  fair  mount,  with  three  ascents  and  alleys,  enough  for  four 
to  walk  abreast,  which  I  would  have  to  be  perfect  circles,  without 
any  bulwarks  or  embossments  ;  and  the  whole  mount  to  be  thirty 
feet  high,  and  some  fine  banqueting-house,  with  some  chimneys 
neatly  cast,  and  without  too  much  glass. 

For  fountains,  they  are  a  great  beauty  and  refreshment ;  but  pools 
mar  all,  and  make  the  garden  unwholesome,  and  full  of  flies  and 
frogs.  Fountains  I  intend  to  be  of  two  natures,  the  one  that  sprin- 
kleth  or  spouteth  water ;  the  other  a  fair  receipt  *  of  water,  of  some 
thirty  or  forty  feet  square,  but  without  any  fish,  or  slime,  or  mud. 
For  the  first,  the  ornaments  of  images,  gilt,  or  of  marble,  which  are 

1  Let.     To  hinder.  «  Elaborate.  »  Edging  ;' border.  *  Receptacle. 


FRANCIS   BACON.  1 9 

in  use,  do  well ;  but  the  main  matter  is  so  to  convey  the  water  as  *  it 
never  stay,  either  in  the  bowls  or  in  the  cistern  —  that  the  water  be 
never  by  rest  discolored,  green  or  red,  or  the  like,  or  gather  any 
mossiness  or  putrefaction :  besides  that,  it  is  to  be  cleansed  every 
day  by  the  hand  —  also  some  steps  up  to  it,  and  some  fine  pavement 
about  it  do  well.  As  for  the  other  kind  of  fountain,  which  we  may 
call  a  bathing-pool,  it  may  admit  much  curiosity  ^  and  beauty,  where- 
with we  will  not  trouble  ourselves  :  as,  that  the  bottom  be  finely 
paved,  and  with  images  :  the  sides  likewise  ;  and  withal  embellished 
with  colored  glass,  and  such  things  of  lustre,  encompassed  also 
with  fine  rails  of  low  statuas  ;  ^  but  the  main  point  is  the  same  which 
we  mentioned  in  the  former  kind  of  fountain,  which  is,  that  the 
water  be  in  perpetual  motion,  fed  by  a  water  higher  than  the  pool, 
and  delivered  into  it  by  fair  spouts,  and  then  discharged  away  under 
ground,  by  some  equahty  of  bores,  that  it  stay  little  ;  and  for  fine 
devices,  of  arching  water  without  spilling,  and  making  it  rise  in 
several  forms  (of  feathers,  drinking  glasses,  canopies,  and  the  like), 
they  be  pretty  things  to  look  on,  but  nothing  to  health  and  sweetness. 

For  the  heath,  which  was  the  third  part  of  our  plot,  I  wished  it  to 
be  framed  as  much  as  may  be  to  a  natural  wildness.  Trees  I  would 
have  none  in  it,  but  some  thickets  made  only  of  sweetbrier  and 
honeysuckle,  and  some  wild  vines  amongst,  and  the  ground  set  with 
violets,  strawberries,  and  primroses  ;  for  these  are  sweet,  and  prosper 
in  the  shade,  and  these  are  to  be  in  the  heath  here  and  there,  not  in 
any  order.  I  Uke  also  little  heaps,  in  the  nature  of  mole-hills  (such 
as  are  in  wild  heaths),  to  be  set,  some  with  wild  thyme,  some  with 
pinks,  some  with  germander,  that  gives  a  good  flower  to  the  eye ; 
some  with  periwinkle,  some  with  violets,  some  with  strawberries, 
some  with  cowslips,  some  with  daisies,  some  with  red  roses,  some 
with  lilium  convallium,  some  with  sweet-williams  red,  some  with 
bear's-foot,  and  the  like  low  flowers,  being  withal  sweet  and  sightly 
—  part  of  which  heaps  to  be  with  standards  of  little  bushes  pricked 
upon  their  top,  and  part  without  —  the  standards  to  be  roses,  juniper, 
holly,  berberries  (but  here  and  there,  because  of  the  smell  of  their 
blossom),  red  currants,  gooseberries,  rosemary,  bays,  sweetbrier,  and 
such  like  ;  but  these  standards  to  be  kept  with  cutting,  that  they 
grow  not  out  of  course. 

For  the  side  grounds,  you  are  to  fill  them  with  variety  of  alleys, 
private  to  give  a  full  shade ;  some  of  them  wheresoever  the  sun  be. 

1  That.  2  Elegance. 

8  "Even  at  the  base  of  Pompey's statua."  —  Shakespeare,  Jul.  Ccesar. 


20  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

You  are  to  frame  some  of  them  likewise  for  shelter,  that,  when  the 
wind  blows  sharp,  you  may  walk  as  in  a  gallery ;  and  those  alleys 
must  be  likewise  hedged  at  both  ends,  to  keep  out  the  wind,  and 
these  closer  alleys  must  be  ever  finely  gravelled,  and  no  grass, 
because  of  going  ^  wet.  In  many  of  these  alleys,  likewise,  you  are  to 
set  fruit  trees  of  all  sorts,  as  well  upon  the  walls  as  in  ranges  :  and 
this  should  be  generally  observed,  that  the  borders  wherein  you 
plant  your  fruit  trees  be  fair,  and  large,  and  low,  and  not  steep,  and 
set  with  fine  flowers,  but  thin  and  sparingly,  lest  they  deceive  ^  the 
trees.  At  the  end  of  both  the  side  grounds  I  would  have  a  mount 
of  some  pretty  height,  leaving  the  wall  of  the  enclosure  breast-high, 
to  look  abroad  into  the  fields. 

For  the  main  garden,  I  do  not  deny  but  there  should  be  some  fair 
alleys  ranged  on  both  sides  with  fruit  trees,  and  some  pretty  tufts  of 
fruit  trees  and  arbors  with  seats,  set  in  some  decent  order ;  but 
these  to  be  by  no  means  set  too  thick,  but  to  leave  the  main  garden 
so  as  it  be  not  close,  but  the  air  open  and  free.  For  as  for  shade,  I 
would  have  you  rest  upon  the  alleys  of  the  side  grounds,  there  to 
walk,  if  you  be  disposed,  in  the  heat  of  the  year  or  day  ;  but  to  make 
account,  that  the  main  garden  is  for  the  more  temperate  parts  of 
the  year,  and,  in  the  heat  of  summer,  for  the  morning  and  the  even- 
ing, or  overcast  days. 

For  aviaries,  I  like  them  not,  except  they  be  of  that  largeness  as 
they  may  be  turfed,  and  have  living  plants  and  bushes  set  in  them, 
that  the  birds  may  have  more  scope  and  natural  nestling,  and  that 
no  foulness  appear  on  the  floor  of  the  aviary.  So  I  have  made  a 
platform  of  a  princely  garden,  partly  by  precept,  partly  by  drawing 
—  not  a  model,  but  some  general  lines  of  it  —  and  in  this  I  have 
spared  for  no  cost ;  but  it  is  nothing  for  great  princes,  that,  for  the 
most  part,  taking  advice  with  workmen  with  no  less  cost  set  their 
things  together,  and  sometimes  add  statues,  and  such  things,  for 
state  and  magnificence,  but  nothing  to  the  true  pleasure  of  a  garden. 


OF   STUDIES. 

Studies  serve  for  delight,  for  ornament,  and  for  ability.  Their 
chief  use  for  delight  is  in  privateness,  and  retiring ;  for  ornament,  is 
in  discourse  ;  and  for  ability,  is  in  the  judgment  and  disposition  of 
business  ;  for  expert  men  can  execute,  and  perhaps  judge  of  par- 
ticulars, one  by  one  ;  but  the  general  counsels,  and  the  plots  and 

1  Go.     To  tend  to.  *  To  deprive  by  stealth  ;  to  rob 


FRANCIS   BACON.  21 

marshalling  of  affairs,  come  best  from  those  that  are  learned.  To 
spend  too  much  time  in  studies,  is  sloth  ;  to  use  them  too  much  for 
ornament,  is  affectation  ;  to  make  '  judgment  wholly  by  their  rules,  is 
the  humor  of  a  scholar ;  they  perfect  nature,  and  are  perfected  by 
experience  —  for  natural  abilities  are  like  natural  plants,  that  need 
pruning  by  study ;  and  studies  themselves  do  give  forth  directions 
too  much  at  large,  except  they  be  bounded  in  by  experience.  Crafty 
men  contemn  studies,  simple  men  admire  them,  and  wise  men  use 
them,  for  they  teach  not  their  own  use  ;  but  that  is  a  wisdom  without 
them,  and  above  them,  won  by  observation.  Read  not  to  contradict 
and  confute,  nor  to  believe  and  take  for  granted,  nor  to  find  talk  and 
discourse,  but  to  weigh  and  consider.  Some  books  are  to  be  tasted, 
others  to  be  swallowed,  and  some  few  to  be  chewed  and  digested : 
that  is,  some  books  are  to  be  read  only  in  parts  ;  others  to  be  read, 
but  not  curiously ;  "^  and  some  few  to  be  read  wholly,  and  with  dil- 
igence and  attention.  Some  books  also  may  be  read  by  deputy, 
and  extracts  made  of  them  by  others  ;  but  that  would  ^  be  only  in  the 
less  important  arguments,  and  the  meaner  sort  of  books  ;  else  dis- 
tilled books  are,  like  common  distilled  waters,  flashy  things.  Read- 
ing maketh  a  full  man,  conference  a  ready  man,  and  writing  an  exact 
man  ;  and  therefore,  if  a  man  write  Httle,  he  had  need  have  a  great 
memory  ;  if  he  confer  httle,  he  had  need  have  a  present  wit ;  and  if 
he  read  little,  he  had  need  have  much  cunning,  to  seem  to  know 
that  *  he  doth  not.  Histories  make  men  wise  ;  poets  witty ;  the 
mathematics  subtle  ;  natural  philosophy  deep ;  moral,  grave  ;  logic 
and  rhetoric,  able  to  contend  :  "  Abeunt  in  studia  mores  "  ^  —  nay, 
there  is  no  stond^  or  impediment  in  the  wit,  but  may  be  wrought' 
out  by  fit  studies,  like  as  diseases  of  the  body  may  have  appropriate 
exercises  —  bowling  is  good  for  the  stone  and  reins,  shooting  for 
the  lungs  and  breast,  gentle  walking  for  the  stomach,  riding  for  the 
head,  and  the  hke  ;  so,  if  a  man's  wits  be  wandering,  let  him  study 
the  mathematics,  for  in  demonstrations,  if  his  wit  be  called  away 
never  so  little,  he  must  begin  again  ;  if  his  wit  be  not  apt  to  dis- 
tinguish or  find  differences,**  let  him  study  the  schoolmen,  for  they 
are  "  cymini  sectores  ;  "  ^  if  he  be  not  apt  to  beat  over  matters,  and 
to  call  upon  one  thing  to  prove  and  illustrate  another,  let  him  study 
the  lawyers'  cases  —  so  every  defect  of  the  mind  may  have  a  special 
receipt. 

»  Give.  2  Attentively.  3  Should.  *  What, 

^  "  Manners  are  influenced  by  studies. "  "  Hinderance.  '  Worked. 

*  Distinctions.  »  "  Splitters  of  cummin. " 


22  HAND-BOOK   OF  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

OF  JUDICATURE. 

Judges  ought  to  remember  that  their  office  is  jus  dicere,  and  not 
"jus  dare  "  —  to  interpret  law,  and  not  to  make  law,  or  give  law  — 
else  will  it  be  like  the  authority  claimed  by  the  church  of  Rome, 
which,  under  pretext  of  exposition  of  Scripture,  doth  not  stick  to 
add  and  alter,  and  to  pronounce  that  which  they  do  not  find,  and 
by  show  of  antiquity  to  introduce  novelty.  Judges  ought  to  be  more 
learned  than  witty,  more  reverend  than  plausible,  and  more  advised 
than  confident.  Above  all  things,  integrity  is  their  portion  and 
proper  virtue.  "  Cursed  (saith  the  law)  is  he  that  remove th  the  land- 
mark." ^  The  mislayer  of  a  mere  stone  is  to  blame  ;  but  it  is  the 
unjust  judge  that  is  the  capital  remover  of  landmarks,  when  he  de- 
fineth  amiss  of  land  and  property.  One  foul  sentence  doth  more 
hurt  than  many  foul  examples  ;  for  these  do  but  corrupt  the  stream, 
the  other  corrupteth  the  fountain  —  so  saith  Solomon,  "  Fons  tur- 
batus,  et  vena  corrupta  est  Justus  cadens  in  causa  sua  coram  ad- 
versario."  ^ 

The  office  of  judges  may  have  a  reference  unto  the  parties  that 
sue,  unto  the  advocates  that  plead,  unto  clerks  and  ministers  of 
justice  underneath  them,  and  to  the  sovereign  or  state  above  them. 

First,  for  the  cause  of  parties  that  sue.  There  be  (saith  the 
Scripture)  "that  turn  judgment  into  wormwood  ;  " ^  and  surely  there 
be  also  that  turn  it  into  vinegar ;  for  injustice  maketh  it  bitter,  and 
delays  make  it  sour.  The  principal  duty  of  a  judge  is  to  suppress 
force  and  fraud,  whereof  force  is  the  more  pernicious  when  it  is 
open,  and  fraud  when  it  is  close  and  disguised.  Add  thereto  con- 
tentious suits,  which  ought  to  be  spewed  out  as  the  surfeit  ot 
courts.  A  judge  ought  to  prepare  his  way  to  a  just  sentence,  as 
God  useth  to  prepare  his  way  by  raising  valleys  and  taking  down 
hills :  so  when  there  appeareth  on  either  side  a  high  hand,  violent 
persecution,  cunning  advantages  taken,  combination,  power,  great 
counsel,  then  is  the  virtue  of  a  judge  seen  to  make  mequality  equal ; 
that  he  may  plant  his  judgment  as  upon  even  ground.  "  Qui  fortiter 
emungit,  elicit  sanguinem  ; " ''  and  where  the  wine-press  is  hard 
wrought,  it  yields  a  harsh  wine,  that  tastes  of  the  grape  stone. 
Judges  must  beware  of  hard  constructions  and  strained  inferences  ; 
for  there  is  no  worse  torture  than  the  torture  of  laws  ;  especially 

*  Deut.  xxvii.  17. 

2  "A  righteous  man  falling  in  his  cause  before  his  adversary  is  as  a  troubled  fountain  and 
a  corrupt  spring."  —  Prov.  xxv.  26. 
'  Amos  V.  7.  *  "Who  wrings  hard  draws  forth  blood."  — Cf.  Prov.  xxx.  33^ 


FRANCIS   BACON.  23 

In  case  of  laws  penal,  they  ought  to  have  care,  that  that  which 
was  meant  for  terror,  be  not  turned  into  rigor :  and  that  they 
bring  not  upon  people  that  shower  whereof  the  Scripture  speak- 
eth,  "  Pluet  super  eos  laqueos  ; "  ^  for  penal  laws  pressed,  are  a 
shower  of  snares  upon  the  people  :  therefore  let  penal  laws,  if  they 
have  been  sleepers  of  long,^  or  if  they  be  grown  unfit  for  the  present 
time,  be  by  wise  judges  confined  in  the  execution  :  "  Judicis  officium 
est,  ut  res,  ita  tempora  rerum,"  &c.^  In  causes  of  life  and  death, 
judges  ought  (as  far  as  the  law  permitteth)  in  justice  to  remember 
mercy,  and  to  cast  a  severe  eye  upon  the  example,  but  a  merciful 
eye  upon  the  person. 

Secondly,  for  the  advocates  and  counsel  that  plead.  Patience  and 
gravity  of  hearing  is  an  essential  part  of  justice,  and  an  over-speak- 
ing judge  is  no  well- tuned  cymbal.*  It  is  no  grace  to  a  judge  first  to 
find  that  which  he  might  have  heard  in  due  time  from  the  bar,  or  to 
show  quickness  of  conceit '"  in  cutting  off  evidence  or  counsel  too 
short,  or  to  prevent^  information  by  questions,  though  pertinent. 
The  parts  of  a  judge  in  hearing  are  four :  to  direct  the  evidence ; 
to  moderate  length,  repetition,  or  impertineacy'  of  speech;  to 
recapitulate,  select,  and  collate  the  material  points  of  that  which 
hath  been  said ;  and  to  give  the  rule  or  sentence.  Whatsoevel 
is  above  these  is  too  much,  and  proceedeth  either  of "  glory  ^  and 
willingness  to  speak,  or  of  impatience  to  hear,  or  of  shortness  of 
memory,  or  of  want  of  a  stayed  and  equal  attention.  It  is  a  strange 
thing  to  see  that  the  boldness  of  advocates  should  prevail  with 
judges,  whereas  they  should  imitate  God,  in  whose  seat  they  sit, 
who  represseth  the  presumptuous,  and  giveth  grace  to  the  modest ; 
but  it  is  more  strange  that  judges  should  have  noted  favorites, 
which  cannot  but  cause  multiplication  of  fees  and  suspicion  of  by- 
ways. There  is  due  from  the  judge  to  the  advocate  some  com- 
mendation and  gracing, '"  where  causes  are  well  handled  and  fair 
pleaded,  especially  towards  the  side  which  obtaineth  not,  for  that 
upholds  in  the  client  the  reputation  of  his  counsel,  and  beats  down 
in  him  the  conceit^*  of  his  cause.  There  is  likewise  due  to  the 
public  a  civil  reprehension  of  advocates,  where  there  appeareth  cun- 
ning counsel,  gross  neglect,  slight  information,  indiscreet  pressing. 


*  "  He  shall  rain  snares  upon  them." — Psalm  x\.  6.  *  For;  during. 

'  "  It  is  the  duty  of  a  judge  to  take  into  consideration  the  times,  as  well  as  the  circum- 
stances, of  facts."  —  Ovid,  Tri'si.  1.  i.  37. 

*  Psalm  cl.  5.  5  Conception  ;  apprehension.  "  Forestall.  ">  Irrelevancy. 
»  From.                   »  Display :  vaunting.^         «  Grace.     To  favor.          «  Opinion. 


24  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

or  an  over-bold  defence.  And  let  not  the  counsel  at  the  bar  chop^ 
with  the  judge,  nor  wind  himself  into  the  handling  of  the  cause 
anew,  after  the  judge  hath  declared  his  sentence  ;  but,  on  the  other 
side,  let  not  the  judge  meet  the  cause  half  way,  nor  give  occasion  to 
the  party  to  say  his  counsel  or  proofs  were  not  heard. 

Thirdly,  for  that  that  concerns  clerks  and  ministers.  The  place 
of  justice  is  a  hallowed  place  ;  and  therefore  not  only  the  bench,  but 
the  footpace^  and  precincts,  and  purprise^  thereof,  ought  to  be 
preserved  without  scandal  and  corruption  ;  for,  certainly,  grapes  (as 
the  Scripture  saith)  "will  not  be  gathered  of  thorns  or  thistles,"* 
neither  can  justice  yield  her  fruit  with  sweetness  among  the  briers 
and  brambles  of  catching  and  polling  ^  clerks  and  ministers.  The 
attendance  of  courts  is  subject  to  four  bad  instruments  :  first,  certain 
persons  that  are  sowers  of  suits,  which  make  the  court  swell,  and 
the  country  pine  :  the  second  sort  is  of  those  that  engage  courts  in 
quarrels  of  jurisdiction,  and  are  not  truly  "amici  curiae,"  but 
"parasiti  curiae,"**  in  puffing  a  court  up  beyond  her  bounds  for 
their  own  scraps  and  advantages  :  the  third  sort  is  of  those  that  may 
be  accounted  the  leit  hands  of  courts,  persons  that  are  full  of  nim- 
ble and  sinister  tricks  and  shifts,  whereby  they  pervert  the  plain  and 
direct  courses  of  courts,  and  bring  justice  into  oblique  lines  and 
labyrinths  :  and  the  fourth  is  the  poller '  and  exacter  of  fees,  which 
justifies  the  common  resemblance  of  the  courts  of  justice  to  the 
bush,  whereunto  while  the  sheep  flies  for  defence  in  weather,  he  is 
sure  to  lose  part  of  the  fleece.  On  the  other  side,  an  ancient  **  clerk, 
skilful  in  precedents,  wary  in  proceedings,  and  understanding  in  the 
business  of  the  court,  is  an  excellent  figure  of  a  court,  and  doth 
many  times  point  the  way  to  the  judge  himself. 

Fourthly,  for  that  which  may  concern  the  sovereign  and  estate. 
Judges  ought,  above  all,  to  remember  the  conclusion  of  the  Roman 
Twelve  Tables,  "  Salus  populi  suprema  lex  ; "  *  and  to  know  that 
laws,  except  they  be  in  order  to  that  end,  are  but  things  captious, 
and  oracles  not  well  inspired :  therefore  it  is  a  happy  thing  in  a 
state,  when  kings  and  states  do  often  consult  with  judges :  and 
again,  when  judges  do  often  consult  with  the  king  and  state :  the 
one,  where  there  is  matter  of  law  intervenient  ^"  in  business  of  state  ; 
the  other,  when  there  is  some  consideration  of  state  intervenient  in 
matter  of  law  ;  for  many  times  the  things  deduced  to  judgment  may 

»  To  bandy  words.        2  a  lobby.        3  Enclosure.         *  Matt.  vii.  16.         ^  P'.undering. 
«  "Friends  of  the  court,"  but  "parasites  of  the  court."  ^  Plunderer. 

8  Of  great  experience.  ^  "  The  safety  of  the  people  is  the  supreme  law." 

1"  Intervening. 


FRANCIS   BACON.  —  WILLIAM   SHAKESPEARE.  2$ 

be  "meum"  and  "tuum,"'  when  the  reason  and  consequence 
thereof  may  trench  to  point  of  estate :  I  call  matter  of  estate,  not 
only  the  parts  of  sovereignty,  but  whatsoever  introduceth  any  great 
alteration  or  dangerous  precedent:  or  concerneth  manifestly  any 
great  portion  of  people  ;  and  let  no  man  weakly  conceive  that  just 
Taws,  and  true  pohcy,  have  any  antipathy ;  for  they  are  hke  the 
spirits  and  sinews,  that  one  moves  with  the  other.  Let  judges  also 
remember,  that  Solomon's  throne  was  supported  by  lions  on  both 
sides :  ^  let  them  be  lions,  but  yet  lions  under  the  thron*  ;  being 
circumspect,  that  they  do  not  check  or  oppose  any  pi>ints  of 
sovereignty.  Let  not  judges  also  be  so  ignorant  of  their  own  right 
as  to  think  there  is  not  left  them,  as  a  principal  part  of  their  office,  a 
wise  use  and  application  of  laws  ;  for  they  may  remember  what  the 
apostle  saith  of  a  greater  law  than  theirs,  "  Nos  scimus  quia  lex 
bona  est,  modo  quis  ea  utatur  legitime."  ^ 


WILLIAM    SHAKESPEARE. 

William  Shakespeare  was  bom  at  Stratford-on-Avon  in  April,  1564,  and  died  April  23, 
1616.  It  is  evident  that  his  townsmen  and  most  of  his  contemporaries  had  no  idea  of  his 
future  greatness,  and  scarcely  any  accounts  of  his  youth  or  of  the  beginning  of  his  literary 
career  have  come  down  to  us.  It  is  surprising  that  all  personal  recollections  of  such  a  m;  n 
should  have  disappeared  with  his  generation,  and  that  from  the  pen  of  so  prolific  a  writei 
only  his  will  and  three  other  autographs  now  remain.  Criticism  and  research  have  prob- 
ably done  their  utmost,  and  we  must  be  content  to  study  the  life  of  our  greatest  poet  in  his 
works.  The  only  important  facts  respecting  him,  which  do  not  rest  in  part  on  conjecture, 
are,  that  he  was  educated  in  the  grammar  school  of  his  native  town,  was  detected  once  in 
deer  stealing  in  the  neighboring  park  of  the  Lucys,  was  married  while  still  in  his  minority,  — 
that  he  appeared  in  early  manhood  as  an  actor,  dramatist,  and  afterwards  manager,  in  Lon- 
don, where  he  enjoyed  the  friendship  of  Ben  Jonson,  Drayton,  and  other  men  of  letters,  — 
that  he  acquired  a  competency,  and  retired  to  Stratford,  where  he  died.  He  was  careless  of 
his  fame,  and  took  little  pains  to  have  his  plays  correctly  printed,  to  defend  his  claims  to  his 
own  productions,  or  to  disavow  the  authorship  of  inferior  vst)rks  falsely  attributed  to  him  by 
booksellers.  No  specimens  of  his  plays  are  given  in  this  volume,  for  reasons  stated  in  the 
preface.  A  few  sonnets  only  have  been  selected ;  but  even  these  would  be  sufficient  to 
establish  his  claim  to  high  rank  among  poets. 

The  student  can  have  his  choice  among  many  excellent  editions  of  Shakespeare.  Two  ver> 
admirable  editions  have  appeared  in  this  country,  one  edited  by  Richard  Grant  White,  th« 
other  by  Rev.  H.  N.  Hudson. 

[Selected  Sonnets.] 

XVIIL 

Shall  I  compare  thee  to  a  summer's  day  ? 
Thou  art  more  lovely  and  more  temperate  : 
Rough  winds  do  shake  the  darling  buds  of  May, 
And  summer's  lease  hath  all  too  short  a  date. 

1  "Mine  "and  "thine."  2  j  Kings  x.  20. 

3  "We  know  that  the  law  is  good,  if  a  man  use  it  lawfully."  —  i  Tim.  i.  8. 


26  ¥4At4J>BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURli. 

Sometime  too  hot  the  eye  of  heaven  shines, 
And  often  is  his  gold  complexion  dimmed, 
And  every  fair  from  fair  sometime  declines, 
By  chance,  or  nature's  changing  course,  untrimmed  ; 
But  thy  eternal  summer  shall  not  fade. 
Nor  lose  possession  of  that  fair  thou  owest ; 
Nor  shall  Death  brag  thou  wander'st  in  his  shade, 
When  in  eternal  lines  to  time  thou  growest. 
So  long  as  men  can  breathe,  or  eyes  can  see, 
So  long  lives  this,  and  this  gives  life  to  thee. 

XXIX. 

When  in  disgrace  with  fortune  and  men's  eyes, 
I  all  alone  beweep  my  outcast  state. 
And  trouble  deaf  Heaven  with  my  bootless  cries. 
And  look  upon  myself,  and  curse  my  fate. 
Wishing  me  like  to  one  more  rich  in  hope, 
Featured  like  him,  like  him  with  friends  possessed, 
Pesiring  this  man's  art,  and  that  man's  scope, 
With  what  I  most  enjoy  contented  least ; 
\'et  in  these  thoughts  myself  almost  despising, 
Haply  I  think  on  thee,  and  then  my  state 
(Like  to  the  lark  at  break  of  day  arising 
From  sullen  earth)  sings  hymns  at  heaven's  gate : 
For  thy  sweet  love  remembered  such  wealth  brings, 
That  then  I  scorn  to  change  my  state  with  kings. 

XXX. 

When  to  the  sessions  of  sweet  silent  thought 

I  summon  up  remembrance  of  things  past, 

J  sigh  the  lack  of  many  a  thing  I  sought, 

And  with  old  woes  new  wail  my  dear  time's  waste : 

Then  can  I  drown  an  eye,  unused  to  flow, 

For  precious  friends  hid  in  death's  dateless  night, 

And  weep  afresh  love's  long-since  cancelled  woe, 

And  moan  the  expense  of  many  a  vanished  sight 

Then  can  I  grieve  at  grievances  foregone, 

And  heavily  from  woe  to  woe  tell  o'er 

The  sad  account  of  fore-bemoaned  moan, 

Which  I  new  pay,  as  if  not  paid  before. 

But  if  the  while  I  think  on  thee,  dear  friend. 
All  losses  are  restored,  and  sorrows  end. 


WILLIAM   SHAKESPEARE.  2^ 

xxxin. 
Full  many  a  glorious  morning  have  I  seen 
Flatter  the  mountain-tops  with  sovereign  eye, 
Kissing  with  golden  face  the  meadows  green, 
Gilding  pale  streams  with  heavenly  alchemy ; 
Anon  permit  the  basest  clouds  to  ride 
With  ugly  rack  on  his  celestial  face, 
And  from  the  forlorn  world  his  visage  hide, 
Stealing  unseen  to  west  with  this  disgrace. 
Even  so  my  sun  one  early  morn  did  shine. 
With  all  triumphant  splendor  on  my  brow ; 
But,  out,  alack  !  he  was  but  one  hour  mine, 
The  region  cloud  hath  masked  him  from  me  now. 

Yet  him  for  this  my  love  no  whit  disdaineth  ; 

Suns  of  the  world  may  stain,  when  heaven's  sun  staineth. 

LII. 

So  am  I  as  the  rich,  whose  blessed  key 

Can  bring  him  to  his  sweet  up-locked  treasure, 

The  which  he  will  not  every  hour  survey, 

For  blunting  the  fine  point  of  seldom  pleasure. 

Therefore  are  feasts  so  solemn  and  so  rare, 

Since,  seldom  coming,  in  the  long  year  set 

Like  stones  of  worth  they  thinly  placed  are. 

Or  captain  jewels  in  the  carcanet. 

So  is  the  time  that  keeps  you  as  my  chest. 

Or  as  the  wardrobe  which  the  robe  doth  hide. 

To  make  some  special  instant  special-blest, 

By  new  unfolding  his  imprisoned  pride. 

Blessed  are  you,  whose  worthiness  gives  scope, 
Being  had,  to  triumph,  being  lacked,  to  hope. 

LV. 

Not  marble,  nor  the  gilded  monuments 

Of  princes,  shall  outlive  this  powerful  rhyme ; 

But  you  shall  shine  more  bright  in  these  contents 

Than  unswept  stone,  besmeared  with  sluttish  time. 

When  wasteful  war  shall  statues  overturn, 

And  broils  root  out  the  work  of  masonry. 

Nor  Mars  his  sword,  nor  war's  quick  fire  shall  bum 

The  living  record  of  your  memory. 


28  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

'Gainst  death  and  all-oblivious  enmity 
Shall  you  pace  forth :  your  praise  shall  still  find  room, 
Even  in  the  eyes  of  all  posterity, 
That  wear  this  world  out  to  the  ending  doom. 
So,  till  the  judgment  that  yourself  arise, 
You  live  in  this,  and  dwell  in  lovers'  eyes. 

LXXIIL 

That  time  of  year  thou  mayst  in  me  behold, 
When  yellow  leaves,  or  none,  or  few,  do  hang 
Upon  those  boughs  which  shake  against  the  cold,  — 
Bare,  ruined  choirs,  where  late  the  sweet  birds  sang. 
In  me  thou  seest  the  twilight  of  such  day 
As  after  sunset  fadeth  in  the  west. 
Which  by  and  by  black  night  doth  take  away, 
Death's  second  self,  that  seals  up  all  in  rest ; 
In  me  thou  seest  the  glowing  of  such  fire, 
That  on  the  ashes  of  his  youth  doth  lie. 
As  the  death-bed  whereon  it  must  expire. 
Consumed  with  that  which  it  was  nourished  by. 

This  thou  perceiv'st,  which  makes  thy  love  more  strong, 
To  love  that  well  which  thou  must  leave  ere  long. 

LXXVI. 

»  Why  is  my  verse  so  barren  of  new  pride, 

So  far  from  variation  or  quick  change  ? 
Why,  with  the  time,  do  I  not  glance  aside 
To  new-found  methods  and  to  compounds  strange  ? 
Why  write  I  still  all  one,  ever  the  same. 
And  keep  invention  in  a  noted  weed,* 
That  every  word  doth  almost  tell  my  name, 
Showing  their  birth,  and  where  they  did  proceed  ? 
O,  know,  sweet  love,  I  always  write  of  you, 
And  you  and  love  are  still  my  argument ; 
So  all  my  best  is  dressing  old  words  new. 
Spending  again  what  is  already  spent : 

For  as  the  sun  is  daily  new  and  old. 

So  is  my  love,  still  telling  what  is  told. 

1  Well-known   garb.     IVeed  anciently  meant  clothiug  in  general ;   it  is  modem  usag« 
that  has  limited  it  to  mourning. 


WILLIAM   SHAKESPEARE.  —  ANONYMOUS.  29 

CXVI. 

Let  me  not  to  the  marriage  of  true  minds 

Admit  impediments.     Love  is  not  love 

Which  alters  when  it  alteration  finds, 

Or  bends  with  the  remover  to  remove  : 

O,  no  ;  it  is  an  ever-fixed  mark, 

That  looks  on  tempests,  and  is  never  shaken  ; 

It  is  the  star  to  every  wandering  bark, 

Whose  worth's  unknown,  although  his  height  be  taken. 

Love's  not  Time's  fool,  though  rosy  lips  and  cheeks 

Within  his  bending  sickle's  compass  come  ; 

Love  alters  not  with  his  brief  hours  and  weeks, 

3ut  bears  it  out  even  to  the  edge  of  doom. 

If  this  be  error,  and  upon  me  proved, 

I  never  writ,  nor  no  man  ever  loved. 


ANONYMOUS. 

MY   MIND   TO   ME   A    KINGDOM   IS. 

[From  Byrd's  Psalms,  Sonnets,  &c,     1588.] 

My  mind  to  me  a  kingdom  is, 
Such  perfect  joy  therein  I  find. 

That  it  excels  all  other  bhss 

That  God  or  nature  hath  assigned : 

Though  much  I  want  that  most  would  hav«, 

Yet  still  my  mind  forbids  to  crave. 

No  princely  port,  nor  wealthy  store, 

Nor  force  to  win  a  victory ; 
No  wily  wit  to  salve  a  sore. 

No  shape  to  win  a  loving  eye  ; 
To  none  of  these  I  yield  as  thrall. 
For  why,  my  mind  despiseth  all. 

I  see  that  plenty  surfeits  oft. 

And  hasty  climbers  soonest  fall ; 

I  see  that  such  as  are  aloft. 

Mishap  doth  threaten  most  of  all ; 

These  get  with  toil,  and  keep  with  fear : 

Such  cares  my  mind  can  never  bear. 


30  HAND-BOGK  OF  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

I  press  to  bear  no  haughty  sway  ; 

I  wish  no  more  than  may  suffice  ; 
I  do  no  more  than  well  I  may, 

Look  what  I  want,  my  mind  supplies ; 
Lo,  thus  I  triumph  like  a  king  ; 
My  mind's  content  with  anything. 

I  laugh  not  at  another's  loss, 

Nor  grudge  not  at  another's  gain  ; 

No  worldly  waves  my  mind  can  toss ; 
I  brook  that  is  another's  bane  ; 

I  fear  no  foe,  nor  fawn  on  friend  ; 

I  loathe  not  life,  nor  dread  mine  end. 

My  wealth  is  health  and  perfect  ease, 
And  conscience  clear  my  chief  defence ; 

I  never  seek  by  bribes  to  please. 
Nor  by  desert  to  give  offence  ; 

Thus  do  I  live,  thus  will  I  die ; 

Would  all  do  so  as  well  as  I ! 


SIR   HENRY   WOTTON. 

Sir  Henry  Wotton  was  bom  in  the  year  1568,  and  died  in  1639.  He  was  for  many  years 
in  public  employments,  and  at  the  time  of  his  death  was  provost  of  Eton  College.  A  very 
interesting  biography  of  him  is  contained  in  "Izaak  Walton's  Lives."  The  works  of 
Wotton  are  not  numerous,  but  the  impression  made  by  them  and  by  his  life  is  such  as  to 
secure  for  him  the  respect  due  to  a  wise,  scholarly,  and  kindly  man. 

THE   CHARACTER   OF   A   HAPPY   LIFE. 

How  happy  is  he  born  and  taught, 

That  serveth  not  another's  will ; 
Whose  armor  is  his  honest  thought, 

And  simple  truth  his  utmost  skill ! 

Whose  passions  not  his  masters  are. 
Whose  soul  is  still  prepared  for  death, 

Untied  unto  the  worldly  care 
Of  public  fame,  or  private  breath  ; 


SIR   HENRY    WOTTON.  —  RICHARD   BARNFIELD. 

Who  envies  none  that  chance  doth  raise, 
Or  vice  ;  who  never  understood 

How  deepest  wounds  are  given  by  praise  ; 
Nor  rules  of  state,  but  rules  of  good  : 

Who  hath  his  life  from  rumors  freed. 
Whose  conscience  is  his  strong  retreat ; 

Whose  state  can  neither  flatterers  feed, 
Nor  ruin  make  oppressors  great ; 

Who  God  doth  late  and  early  pray, 
More  of  his  grace  than  gifts  to  lend  ; 

And  entertains  the  harmless  day 
With  a  religious  book  or  friend  ; 

This  man  is  freed  from  servile  bands 

Of  hope  to  rise,  or  fear  to  fall ; 
Lord  of  himself,  though  not  of  lands ; 

And  having  nothing,  yet  hath  all. 


RICHARD   BARNFIELD. 

Richard  Bamfield  was  bom  about  1570,  and  was  educated  at  Oxford.  His  place  in 
literature  is  not  an  important  one,  and  the  quotation  from  his  verses  is  given  as  one  of  the 
eariiest  specimens  of  pastoral  poetry,  which,  when  joined  to  fitting  music,  has  become  the 
model  of  the  English  glee. 

As  it  fell  upon  a  day. 
In  the  merry  month  of  May, 
Sitting  in  a  pleasant  shade, 
Which  a  grove  of  myrtles  made ; 
Beasts  did  leap,  and  birds  did  sing, 
Trees  did  grow,  and  plants  did  spring  ; 
Everything  did  banish  moan, 
Save  the  nightingale  alone. 
She,  poor  bird,  as  all  forlorn. 
Leaned  her  breast  up-till  a  thorn  ; 
And  there  sung  the  doleful'st  ditty, 
That  to  hear  it  was  great  pity. 
Fie,  fie,  fie,  now  would  she  cry ; 
Teru,  teru,  by  and  by  ; 


HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

That,  to  hear  her  so  complain, 

Scarce  I  could  from  tears  refrain  ; 

For  her  griefs,  so  lively  shown. 

Made  me  think  upon  mine  own. 

Ah  !  —  thought  I  —  thou  mourn'st  in  vain  ; 

None  takes  pity  on  thy  pain  : 

Senseless  trees,  they  cannot  hear  thee  ; 

Ruthless  bears,  they  will  not  cheer  thee. 

King  Pandion  he  is  dead  ; 

All  thy  friends  are  lapped  in  lead  ; 

All  thy  fellow-birds  do  sing, 

Careless  of  thy  sorrowing  ! 

Whilst  as  fickle  Fortune  smiled, 

Thou  and  I  were  both  beguiled. 

Every  one  that  flatters  thee 

Is  no  friend  in  misery. 

Words  are  easy,  like  the  wind  ; 

Faithful  friends  are  hard  to  find. 

Every  man  will  be  thy  friend 

Whilst  thou  hast  wherewith  to  spend  ; 

But,  if  store  of  crowns  be  scant, 

No  man  will  supply  thy  want. 

If  that  one  be  prodigal. 

Bountiful  they  will  him  call ; 

And  with  such-like  flattering, 

"  Pity  but  he  were  a  king." 

If  he  be  addict  to  vice. 

Quickly  him  they  will  entice  ; 

But  if  fortune  once  do  frown. 

Then  farewell  his  great  renown  : 

They  that  fawned  on  him  before 

Use  his  company  no  more. 

He  that  is  thy  friend  indeed. 

He  will  help  thee  in  thy  need  ; 

If  thou  sorrow,  he  will  weep  ; 

If  thou  wake,  he  cannot  sleep : 

Thus,  of  every  grief  in  heart, 

He  with  thee  doth  bear  a  part. 

These  are  certain  signs  to  know 

Faithful  friend  from  flattering  foe. 


BEN  JONSON.  ^3 


BEN  JONSON. 

Benjamin  (or,  as  he  was  in  the  habit  of  abridging  his  name,  Ben)  Jonson  was  bom  in 
1574,  and  died  in  1637.  He  was  reared  in  humble  circumstances,  but  was  educated  at  Cam- 
bridge, and  maintained  a  high  rank  among  the  scholars  of  his  time.  His  fame  rests  on  his 
dramatic  works,  in  which  he  is  excelled  only  by  Shakespeare.  In  person  he  was  short  and 
corpulent,  and  in  disposition  egotistical  and  envious,  in  spite  of  his  very  handsome  tribute 
to  his  great  rival.  His  career  was  marked  by  the  usual  vicissitudes  of  authorship.  While 
he  lived,  his  force  of  intellect,  scholarship,  wit,  and  knowledge  of  men  made  him  an  ac- 
knowledged leader.  With  all  the  hearty  admiration  expressed  in  Jonson's  eulogy,  the  real 
supremacy  of  Shakespeare's  genius  was  unsuspected. 

HER   TRIUMPH. 

See  the  chariot  at  hand  here  of  love, 

Wherein  my  lady  rideth  ! 
Each  that  draws  is  a  swan  or  a  dove, 

And  well  the  car  love  guideth. 
As  she  goes,  all  hearts  do  duty 

Unto  her  beauty ; 
And  enamoured  do  wish,  so  they  might 

But  enjoy  such  a  sight, 
That  they  still  were  to  run  by  her  side. 
Through  swords,  through  seas,  whither  she  would  ride. 

Do  but  look  on  her  eyes,  they  do  Hght 

All  that  love's  world  compriseth  ! 
Do  but  look  on  her  hair,  it  is  bright 

As  love's  star  when  it  riseth  ! 
Do  but  mark,  her  forehead's  smoother 

Than  v/ords  that  soothe  her  ! 
And  from  her  arched  brows,  such  a  grace 

Sheds  itself  through  the  face, 
As  alone  there  triumphs  to  the  life 
All  the  gain,  all  the  good  of  the  elements'  strife. 

Have  you  seen  but  a  bright  lily  grow. 
Before  rude  hands  have  touched  it  ? 
Have  you  marked  but  the  fall  of  the  snow 

Before  the  soil  hath  smutched  it  ? 
Have  you  felt  the  wool  of  the  beaver, 
Or  swan's  down  ever  ? 
3 


34  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

Or  have  smelled  of  the  bud  o'  the  brier  ? 

Or  the  'nard  in  the  fire  ? 
Or  have  tasted  the  bag  of  the  bee  ? 
O  so  white  !  O  so  soft !  O  so  sweet  is  she  ! 


EPITAPH   ON  THE  COUNTESS   OF  PEMBROKE. 

Underneath  this  sable  hearse 
Lies  the  subject  of  all  verse, 
Sidney's  sister,  Pembroke's  mother ; 
Death  !  ere  thou  hast  slain  another, 
Learned,  and  fair,  and  good  as  she, 
Time  shall  throw  a  dart  at  thee. 


EPITAPH   on   ELIZABETH,   L.    H. 

Would'st  thou  hear  what  man  can 
In  a  httle  ?  —  reader,  stay. 

Underneath  this  stone  doth  lie 
As  much  beauty  as  could  die  ; 
Which  in  life  did  harbor  give 
To  more  virtue  than  doth  live. 

If  at  all  she  had  a  fault, 

Leave  it  buried  in  this  vault. 

One  name  was  Elizabeth, 

The  other  let  it  sleep  with  death  : 

Fitter,  where  it  died,  to  tell. 

Than  that  it  lived  at  all.     Farewell ! 


to    the    memory     of     my    BELOVED     MASTER,    WILLIAM     SHAKE- 
SPEARE,   and   what    he   HATH   LEFT   US. 

To  draw  no  envy,  Shakespeare,  on  thy  name, 
Am  I  thus  ample  to  thy  book  and  fame  ; 
While  I  confess  thy  writings  to  be  such. 
As  neither  man,  nor  Muse,  can  praise  too  much. 


BEN  JONSON.  35 

'Tis  true,  and  all  men's  suffrage.     But  these  ways 

Were  not  the  paths  I  meant  unto  thy  praise  ; 

For  silliest  ignorance  on  these  may  light, 

Which,  when  it  sounds  at  best,  but  echoes  right ; 

Or  blind  affection,  which  doth  ne'er  advance 

The  truth,  but  gropes,  and  urgeth  all  by  chance  ; 

Or  crafty  malice  might  pretend  this  praise. 

And  think  to  ruin,  where  it  seemed  to  raise. 

But  thou  art  proof  against  them,  and,  indeed, 

Above  the  ill  fortune  of  them,  or  the  need. 

I  therefore  will  begin :  Soul  of  the  age  ! 

The  applause  !  delight !  the  wonder  of  our  stage  ! 

My  Shakespeare,  rise  !     I  will  not  lodge  thee  by 

Chaucer,  or  Spenser,  or  bid  Beaumont  lie 

A  little  further  off,  to  make  thee  room  : 

Thou  art  a  monument  without  a  tomb, 

And  art  alive  still,  while  thy  book  doth  live. 

And  we  have  wits  to  read,  and  praise  to  give. 

That  I  not  mix  thee  so,  my  brain  excuses, 

I  mean  with  great,  but  disproportioned  Muses  : 

For  if  I  thought  my  judgment  were  of  years, 

I  should  commit  thee  surely  with  thy  peers, 

And  tell  how  far  thou  didst  our  Lily  outshine, 

Or  sporting  Kyd,  or  Marlow's  mighty  line. 

And  though  thou  hadst  small  Latin,  and  less  Greek, 

From  thence  to  honor  thee,  I  will  not  seek 

For  names  ;  but  call  forth  thundering  ^schylus, 

Euripides,  and  Sophocles  to  us, 

Pacuvius,  Accius,  him  of  Cordova  dead, 

To  live  again,  to  hear  thy  buskin  tread. 

And  shake  a  stage :  or  when  thy  socks  were  on, 

Leave  thee  alone,  for  the  comparison 

Of  all  that  insolent  Greece  or  haughty  Rome 

Sent  forth,  or  since  did  from  their  ashes  come. 

Triumph,  my  Britain  !   thou  hast  one  to  show. 

To  whom  all  scenes  of  Europe  homage  owe. 

He  was  not  of  an  age,  but  for  all  time  ! 

And  all  the  Muses  still  were  in  their  prime. 

When,  like  Apollo,  he  came  forth  to  warm 

Our  ears,  or  like  a  Mercury  to  charm  ! 


30  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

Nature  herself  was  proud  of  his  designs, 
And  joyed  to  wear  the  dressing  of  his  lines  ! 

Which  were  so  richly  spun,  and  woven  so  fit. 

As,  since,  she  will  vouchsafe  no  other  wit. 

The  merry  Greek,  tart  Aristophanes, 

Neat  Terence,  witty  Plautus,  now  not  please  ; 

But  antiquated  and  deserted  lie. 

As  they  were  not  of  Nature's  family. 

Yet  must  I  not  give  nature  all ;  thy  art, 

My  gentle  Shakespeare,  must  enjoy  a  part. 

For  though  the  poet's  matter  nature  be. 

His  art  doth  give  the  fashion  ;  and,  that  he 

Who  casts  to  write  a  hving  line,  must  sweat, 

(Such  as  thine  are)  and  strike  the  second  heat 

Upon  the  Muses'  anvil ;  turn  the  same. 

And  himself  with  it,  that  he  thinks  to  frame  ; 

Or  for  the  laurel,  he  may  gain  a  scorn  ; 

For  a  good  poet's  made,  as  well  as  born. 

And  such  wert  thou !     Look  how  the  father's  face 

Lives  in  his  issue,  even  so  the  race 

Of  Shakespeare's  mind  and  manners  brightly  shines 

In  his  well  turned,  and  true  filed  lines ; 

In  each  of  which  he  seems  to  shake  a  lance, 

As  brandished  at  the  eyes  of  ignorance. 

Sweet  Swan  of  Avon  !  what  a  sight  it  were 

To  see  thee  in  our  water  yet  appear. 

And  make  those  flights  upon  the  banks  of  Thames 

That  so  did  take  Eliza  and  our  James  ! 

But  stay,  I  see  thee  in  the  hemisphere 

Advanced,  and  made  a  constellation  there ! 

Shine  forth,  thou  Star  of  Poets,  and  with  rage. 

Or  influence,  chide,  or  cheer  the  drooping  stage, 

Which,  since  thy  flight  from  hence,  hath  mourned  like  night. 

And  despairs  day,  but  for  thy  volume's  light. 


THOMAS   HEYWOOD.  —  JOHN   FLETCHER.  y] 


THOMAS    HEYWOOD. 

Thomas  Heywocxi,  a  native  of  Lincolnshire,  was  a  prolific  dramatist ;  but  little  or  noth- 
ing is  now  known  of  his  personal  history.  He  had  written  for  the  stage  in  1596,  and  contin- 
ued writing  down  to  1640.     The  song  here  printed  is  from  a  play. 

love's    good   MORROWc 

Pack  clouds  away,  and  welcome  day, 

With  night  we  banish  sorrow  ; 

Sweet  air,  blow  soft,  larks,  mount  aloft, 

To  give  my  love  good  morrow. 

Wings  from  the  wind  to  please  her  mind, 

Notes  from  the  lark  I'll  borrow  ; 

Bird,  prune  thy  wing,  nightingale,  sing, 

To  give  my  love  good  morrow. 

Notes  from  them  both  I'll  borrow. 

Wake  from  thy  nest,  robin  redbreast, 
Sing,  birds  in  every  furrow  ; 
And  from  each  hill  let  music  shrill 
Give  my  fair  love  good. morrow. 
Blackbird,  and  thrush,  in  every  bush, 
Stare,  hnnet,  and  cock-sparrow  ! 
You,  pretty  elves,  among  yourselves, 
Sing  my  fair  love  good  morrow. 
To  give  my  love  good  morrow, 
Sing,  birds,  in  every  furrow. 


JOHN    FLETCHER. 

John  Fletcher  is  remembered  best  from  his  long  and  brilliant  literary  partnership  with 
Francis  Beaumont.  As  dramatic  authors  their  names  are  inseparable  ;  and,  indeed,  it  is  a 
matter  of  considerable  difi&culty  to  determine  the  share  contributed  by  each  to  any  of  their 
plays.  Fletcher  had  the  more  poetical  and  sensitive  nature  ;  Beaumont  had  more  wit  and 
more  force.  Fletcher  was  bom  in  1576,  and  died  of  the  plague  in  1625.  The  first  poetical  ex- 
tract here  inserted  is  from  a  play  called  Tfie  Nice  Valor,  in  which  Beaumont  had  no  share. 

MELANCHOLY. 

[From  The  Nice  Valor.] 

Hence,  all  you  vain  delights, 
As  short  as  are  the  nights 

Wherein  you  spend  your  folly  ! 
There's  nought  in  this  life  sweet, 


If  man  were  wise  to  see't 
But  only  melancholy  ! 


38  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

Welcome,  folded  arms,  and  fixed  eyes, 
A  sigh  that  piercing  mortifies, 
A  look  that's  fastened  to  the  ground, 
A  tongue  chained  up,  without  a  sound ! 

Fountain  heads,  and  pathless  groves. 
Places  which  pale  passion  loves  ! 
Moonlight  walks,  when  all  the  fowls 
Are  warmly  housed,  save  bats  and  owls  ! 
A  midnight  bell,  a  parting  groan  ! 
These  are  the  sounds  we  feed  upon ; 
Then  stretch  our  bones  in  a  still  gloomy  valley : 
Nothing's  so  dainty-sweet  as  lovely  melancholy. 


TO    SLEEP. 

[From  Valentinian.] 

Care-charming  Sleep,  thou  easer  of  all  woes. 
Brother  to  Death,  sweetly  thyself  dispose 
On  this  afflicted  prince  :  fall  like  a  cloud 
In  gentle  showers  ;  give  nothing  that  is  loud 
Or  painful  to  his  slumbers  ;  easy,  light, 
And  as  a  purling  stream,  thou  son  of  night. 
Pass  by  his  troubled  senses,  sing  his  pain 
Like  hollow  murmuring  wind  or  gentle  rain. 
Into  this  prince,  gently,  O,  gently  slide, 
And  kiss  him  into  slumbers  like  a  bride. 


ROBERT   HERRICK. 

Robert  Herrick,  bom  in  London  in  1591,  was  educated  for  the  church,  and  officiated  in 
a  rural  parish  for  about  twenty  years,  when,  the  civil  war  breaking  out,  he  was  ejected  from 
his  living,  and  did  not  resume  his  clerical  functions  until  the  accession  of  Charles  II.  Most 
of  his  verses  are  rather  inconsistent  with  the  profession  he  had  chosen.  Without  much 
depth  of  feeling  or  splendor  of  imagery,  his  poems  are  tender  and  melodious,  and  leave  an 
impression  of  grace  which  it  is  difficult  to  analyze.     He  died  in  1674. 

TO   DAFFODILS. 


Fair  daffodils,  we  weep  to  see 
You  haste  away  so  soon  ; 
As  yet  the  early-rising  sun 
Has  not  attained  his  noon  : 


ROBERT   HERRICK.  39 

Stay,  stay, 
Until  the  hastening  day 

Has  run 
But  to  the  even-song ; 
And  having  prayed  together,  we 
Will  go  with  you  along  ! 

We  have  short  time  to  stay  as  you ; 

We  have  as  short  a  spring  ; 

As  quick  a  growth  to  meet  decay, 

As  you  or  anything : 
We  die. 

As  your  hours  do ;  and  dry 
Away 

Like  to  the  summer's  rain, 
Or  as  the  pearls  of  morning-dew, 

Ne'er  to  be  found  again. 


TO   PRIMROSES,    FILLED    WITH    MORNING   DEW. 

Why  do  ye  weep,  sweet  babes  .''     Can  tears 
Speak  grief  in  you. 
Who  were  but  born 
Just  as  the  modest  morn 
Teemed  her  refreshing  dew  ? 
Alas  !  you  have  not  known  that  shower 
That  mars  a  flower. 
Nor  felt  the  unkind 
Breath  of  a  blasting  wind ; 
Nor  are  ye  worn  with  years, 

Or  warped  as  we. 
Who  think  it  strange  to  see 
Such  pretty  flowers,  like  to  orphans  young, 
Speaking  by  tears  before  ye  have  a  tongue. 

Speak,  whimpering  younglings,  and  make  known 

The  reason  why 

Ye  droop  and  weep  ; 
Is  it  for  want  of  sleep, 
Or  childish  lullaby  ? 


40  HAND-BOOK   OF  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

Or  that  ye  have  not  seen  as  yet 
The  violet  ? 
Or  brought  a  kiss 
From  that  sweet  heart  to  this  ? 
No,  no  ;  this  sorrow  shown 

By  your  tears  shed, 
Would  have  this  lecture  read  — 
"  That  things  of  greatest,  so  of  meanest  worth, 
Conceived  with  grief  are,  and  with  tears  brought  forth.' 


.   GEORGE  HERBERT. 

George  Herbert  was  a  clergyman  whom  a  few  felicitous  poems  and  a  saintly  life  have 
made  immortal  in  the  religious  world.  "  Holy  George  Herbert  "  is  the  reverent  and  affec- 
tionate title  by  which  he  was  known.  He  was  bom  in  1593,  and  died  in  1632.  A  memoir 
of  him  is  included  in  the  well-known  "  Lives  "  by  Izaak  Walton.  Much  as  we  admire  the 
sweet  serenity  of  some  of  the  stanzas,  we  can  but  wonder  at  the  tasteless  comparison  to 
"seasoned  timber  "  in  the  lasL     Similar  inequalities  are  found  in  all  his  poems. 

SUNDAY. 

O  DAIT  most  calm,  most  bright  f 
The  fruit  of  this,  the  next  world's  bud, 
The  indorsement  of  supreme  delight, 
Writ  by  a  Friend,  and  with  his  blood  ; 
The  couch  of  time,  carets  balm  and  bay  ; 
The  week  were  dark,  but  for  thy  light ; 

Thy  torch  doth  show  the  way. 

The  other  days  and  thou 
Make  up  one  man ;  whose  face  thoK  art. 
Knocking  at  heaven  with  thy  brow : 
The  workydays  are  the  back-part ;  ' 
The  burden  of  the  week  lies  there. 
Making  the  whole  to  stoop  and  bow, 

Till  thy  release  appear. 

Man  had  strafght  forward  gone 
To  endless  death  :  but  thou  dost  pull 
And  turn  us  round,  to  look  on  One, 
Whom,  if  we  were  not  very  dull, 


/ 

GEORGE   HERBERT.  4^ 

We  could  not  choose  but  look  on  still ; 
Since  there  is  no  place  so  alone, 
The  which  he  doth  not  fill. 

Sundays  the  pillars  are, 
On  which  heaven's  palace  arched  lies : 
The  other  days  fill  up  the  spare 
And  hollow  room  with  vanities. 
They  are  the  fruitful  beds  and  borders 
In  God's  rich  garden  :  that  is  bare. 

Which  parts  their  ranks  and  orders. 

The  Sundays  of  man's  life, 
Threaded  together  on  Time's  string, 
Make  bracelets  to  adorn  the  wife 
Of  the  eternal  glorious  King. 
On  Sunday  heaven's  gate  stands  ope ; 
Blessings  are  plentiful  and  rife  — 

More  plentiful  than  hope. 

This  day  my  Saviour  rose. 
And  did  enclose  this  light  for  his  ; 
That,  as  each  beast  his  manger  knows, 
Man  might  not  of  his  fodder  miss. 
Christ  hath  took  in  this  piece  of  ground, 
And  made  a  garden  there  for  those 

Who  want  herbs  for  their  wound. 

Thou  art  a  day  of  mirth  : 
And  where  the  week-days  trail  on  ground, 
Thy  flight  is  higher,  as  thy  birth  : 
O  let  me  take  thee  at  the  bound, 
Leaping  with  thee  from  seven  to  seven. 
Till  that  we  both,  being  tossed  from  earth, 

Fly  hand  in  hand  to  heaven  ! 


VIRTUE. 

Sweet  day  !  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright, 
The  bridal  of  the  earth  and  sky : 
The  dews  shall  weep  thy  fall  to  night ; 
For  thou  must  die. 


42  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

Sweet  rose  !  whose  hue,  angry  and  brave, 
Bids  the  rash  gazer  wipe  his  eye, 
Thy  root  is  ever  in  its  grave, 
And  thou  must  die. 

Sweet  spring  !  full  of  sweet  days  and  roses, 
A  box  where  sweets  compacted  lie. 
Thy  music  shows  ye  have  your  closes. 
And  all  must  die. 

Only  a  sweet  and  virtuous  soul. 
Like  seasoned  timber,  never  gives  ; 
But,  though  the  whole  world  turn  to  coal, 
Then  chiefly  lives. 


EDMUND   WALLER. 

Edmund  Waller  was  bom  in  1605,  and  died  in  1687.  He  inherited  an  ample  fortune  <ind 
was  long  in  public  service,  and,  having  no  fixed  principles,  was  on  both  sides  of  the  great 
contest  between  the  King  and  Commons.  Nothing  in  his  character  or  career  calls  for  muck 
attention  firom  the  student.  His  poems  are  now  little  read  ;  for  smooth  versification  is  not 
so  rare  as  it  was  two  centuries  ago,  and  mere  polish  is  a  poor  substitute  for  manly  feeling 
and  noble  tlioughL 

A   SONG. 

Go,  lovely  rose  ! 
Tell  her  that  wastes  her  time  and  me, 

That  now  she  knows, 
When  I  resemble  her  to  thee, 
How  sweet  and  fair  she  seems  to  be. 

Tell  her,  that's  young. 
And  shuns  to  have  her  graces  spied, 

That,  hadst  thou  sprung 
In  deserts,  where  no  men  abide, 
Thou  must  have  uncommended  died. 

Small  is  the  worth 
Of  beauty  from  the  light  retired ; 

Bid  her  come  forth. 
Suffer  herself  to  be  desired, 
And  not  blush  so  to  be  admired. 


EDMUND    WALLER.  —  JEREMY    TAYLOR.  43 

Then  die  !  that  she 
The  common  fate  of  all  things  rare 

May  read  in  thee, 
How  small  a  part  of  time  they  share 
That  are  so  wondrous  sweet  and  fair ! 


OLD   AGE   AND   DEATH. 

The  seas  are  quiet  when  the  winds  give  o'er ; 
So  calm  are  we  when  passions  are  no  more. 
For  then  we  know  how  vain  it  was  to  boast 
Of  fleeting  things,  too  certain  to  be  lost. 
Clouds  of  affection  from  our  younger  eyes 
Conceal  that  emptiness  which  age  descries. 

The  soul's  dark  cottage,  battered  and  decayed, 
Lets  in  new  light  through  chinks  that  time  has  made 
Stronger  by  weakness,  wiser  men  become, 
As  they  draw  near  to  their  eternal  home. 
Leaving  the  old,  both  worlds  at  once  they  view, 
That  stand  upon  the  threshold  of  the  new. 


•JEREMY   TAYLOR. 

Jeremy  Taylor,  probably  the  brightest  ornament  of  the  English  church,  vras  the  son  of 
a  barber  at  Cambridge ;  born  in  1613 ;  was  educated  at  Caius  College,  and  was  advanced 
to  places  of  dignity  on  account  of  his  brilliant  talents  and  pure  and  noble  life.  He  died  in 
Ireland,  in  1667,  having  been  appointed  Bishop  of  Down  and  Dromore  upon  tha  Restora- 
tion. His  sermons,  which  are  numerous,  are  still  read  with  delight  by  the  clergy,  and  by 
all  educated  men.  They  abound  in  felicitous  images  and  apt  quotations,  and  show  an  un- 
affected piety,  a  lively  sensibility  to  the  beauties  of  nature,  together  with  a  marvellous  sense 
of  melody  in  the  construction  of  his  exquisitely  balanced  sentences.  But  the  many  un- 
worthy similes,  the  many  forced  allusions,  and  the  too  profuse  display  of  Greek  learning, 
that  are  visible  in  almost  every  sermon,  are  sufficient  to  deter  all  but  resolute  readers.  The 
work  by  which  he  is  most  widely  known  in  the  Christian  world  is  entitled  "Holy  Living 
and  Dying." 

ON   PRAYER. 

Prayer  is  an  action  of  Hkeness  to  the  Holy  Ghost,  the  spirit  of 
gentleness  and  dove-Hke  simphcity  ;  an  imitation  of  the  Holy  Jesus, 
whose  spirit  is  meek,  up  to  the  greatness  of  the  biggest  example ; 
and  a  conformity  to  God,  whose  anger  is  always  just,  and  marches 


44  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

slowly,  and  is  without  transportation,  and  often  hindered,  and  never 
hasty,  and  is  full  of  mercy :  prayer  is  the  peace  of  *our  spirit,  the 
stillness  of  our  thoughts,  the  evenness  of  recollection,  the  seat  of 
meditation,  the  rest  of  our  cares,  and  the  calm  of  our  tempest : 
prayer  is  the  issue  of  a  quiet  mind,  of  untroubled  thoughts  ;  it  is 
the  daughter  of  charity,  and  the  sister  of  meekness ;  and  he  that 
prays  to  God  with  an  angry,  that  is,  with  a  troubled  and  discom- 
posed spirit,  is  like  him  that  retires  into  a  battle  to  meditate,  and 
sets  up  his  closet  in  the  out-quarters  of  an  army,  and  chooses  a 
frontier  garrison  to  be  wise  in.  Anger  is  a  perfect  alienation  of  the 
mind  from  prayer,  and  therefore  is  contrary  to  that  attention  which 
presents  our  prayers  in  a  right  line  to  God.  For  so  have  I  seen  a 
lark  rising  from  his  bed  of  grass,  and  soaring  upwards,  singing  as 
he  rises,  and  hopes  to  get  to  heaven,  and  climb  above  the  clouds ; 
but  the  poor  bird  was  beaten  back  with  the  loud  sighings  of  an  east- 
ern wind,  and  his  motion  made  irregular  and  inconstant,  descending 
more  at  every  breath  of  the  tempest,  than  it  could  recover  by  the 
hbration  and  frequent  weighing  of  his  wings,  till  the  little  creature 
was  forced  to  sit  down,  and  pant,  and  stay  till  the  storm  was  over ; 
and  then  it  made  a  prosperous  flight,  and  did  rise  and  sing,  as  if  it 
had  learned  music  and  motion  from  an  angel,  as  he  passed  some- 
times through  the  air,  about  his  ministries  here  below.  So  is  the 
prayer  of  a  good  man  :  when  his  affairs  have  required  business,  and 
his  business  was  matter  of  discipHne,  and  his  discipline  was  to  pass 
upon  a  sinning  person,  or  had  a  design  of  charity,  his  duty  met  with 
the  infirmities  of  a  man,  and  anger  was  its  instrument ;  and  the  in- 
strument became  stronger  than  the  prime  agent,  and  raised  a  tem- 
pest, and  overruled  the  man  ;  and  then  his  prayer  was  broken,  and 
his  thoughts  were  troubled,  and  his  words  went  up  towards  a  cloud ; 
and  his  thoughts  pulled  them  back  again,  and  made  them  without 
intention  ;  and  the  good  man  sighs  for  his  infirmity,  but  must  be 
content  to  lose  that  prayer,  and  he  must  recover  it  when  his  anger 
is  removed,  and  his  spirit  is  becalmed,  made  even  as  the  brow  of 
Jesus,  and  smooth  hke  the  heart  of  God  ;  and  then  it  ascends  to 
heaven  upon  the  wings  of  the  holy  dove,  and  dwells  with  God,  till 
it  returns,  like  the  useful  bee,  loaden  with  a  blessing  and  the  dew 
^f  heaven. 


SIR   THOMAS    BROWNE.  45 


SIR   THOMAS    BROWNE. 

Sir  Thomas  Browne  was  bom  in  London,  October  19,  1605.  He  was  educated  at  Win- 
chester School,  and  afterwards  at  Pembroke  College,  Oxford.  After  graduation,  he  trav- 
elled on  the  continent,  studied  medicine  at  Montpellier  and  Padua,  and  took  his  degree  of 
doctor  of  physic  at  Leyden,  in  Holland.  Many  events  of  his  life  are  in  obscurity ;  and 
conjecture  must  be  relied  upon  in  many  important  matters. 

His  first  work,  Religio  Medici,  — the  Religion  of  a  Physician,  — is  supposed  to  have  been 
written  in  1634  ;  it  was  read  extensively  in  manuscript,  and  was  printed  (probably  without 
the  author's  consent)  in  1642.-  In  1646  appeared  his  famous  treatise,  Enquiries  into  Vulgar 
Errors.  The  discovery  of  Roman  urns  in  Norfolk  was  the  occasion  of  his  writing  a  learned 
essay  on  Urn  Burial,  in  1658.  He  wrote  also  a  treatise  on  Christian  Morals,  and  several 
posthumous  papers.  He  was  a  zealous  royalist,  and  received  the  honor  of  knighthood  from 
Charles  II.  He  was  happily  married  ;  but  of  his  numerous  children,  only  four  survived 
him.  He  died  October  19,  1682.  The  male  line  in  descent  from  him  was  soon  extmct ;  but 
in  the  fema'e  line  he  had  distinguished  inheritors  of  his  blood,  among  whom  was  the  famous 
Lord  Erskine. 

He  had  a  clear  and  powerful  intellect,  scholarly  tastes,  and  a  singularly  well-balanced 
judgment.  But  it  is  a  noticeable  fact  that  the  assailant  of  Vulgar  Errors  should  have  lent 
the  weight  of  his  great  professional  reputation  as  an  expert  against  two  miserable  women, 
tried  and  convicted  before  Sir  Matthew  Hale  for  witchcraft  —  the  last  victims  of  that  super- 
stition in  England.  It  is  a  further  check  to  the  pride  of  scientific  men  that  he  was  among 
the  upholders  of  the  Ptolemaic  system  of  astronomy.  In  fact,  an  edition  of  his  exposure 
of  Vulgar  Errors  would  require  more  notes  than  the  text  itself  to  make  it  conform  to  the 
present  state  of  4cnowledge.  His  style  is  Latinized  to  a  painful  degree.  If  a  word  is 
wanted,  he  coins  one ;  and  few,  except  accomplished  Latin  scholars,  can  read  the  simplest 
of  his  productions  without  a  lexicon  at  hand.  But  his  reading  was  so  extensive,  his  illus- 
trations so  ready  and  apt,  his  thought  so  clear,  and  his  moral  tone  so  high,  that,  with  all 
the  errors  of  fact,  and  the  frequent  obscurity  of  expression,  his  works  are  still  cherished  by 
scholars,  and  his  name  is  fairly  inscribed  among  the  classic  authors  of  England.  When  the 
characteristics  of  the  author  and  of  his  learned  style  are  considered,  it  will  appear  quite 
appropriate  that  his  life  should  have  been  written,  and  his  works  annotated  by  the  antithetic 
and  pedantic  Dr.  Johnson.  Behind  every  formally-poised  sentence  the  reader  can  hear  the 
elephantine  tread  of  the  great  lexicographer. 

[From  Christian  Morals.] 

Be  substantially  great  in  thyself,  and  more  than  thou  appearest 
unto  others  ;  and  let  the  world  be  deceived  in  thee,  as  they  are  in 
the  lights  of  heaven.  Hang  early  plummets  upon  the  heels  of  pride, 
and  let  ambition  have  but  an  epicycle  ^  and  narrow  circuit  in  thee. 
Measure  not  thyself  by  thy  morning  shadow,  but  by  the  extent  of 
thy  grave  :  and  reckon  thyself  above  the  earth,  by  the  line  thou  must 
be  contented  with  under  it.  Spread  not  into  boundless  expansions 
either  of  designs  or  desires.     Think  not  that  mankind  liveth  but  for 

1  An  epicycle  is  a  small  revolution  made  by  one  planet  in  the  wider  orbit  of  another 
planet.  The  meaning  is,  "Let  not  ambition  form  thy  circle  of  action,  but  move  upon  other 
principles ;  and  let  ambition  only  operate  as  something  extrinsic  and  adventitious."  —  Dr.  J. 


46  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

a  few  ;  and  that  the  rest  are  born  but  to  serve  those  ambitions,  which 
make  but  flies  of  men,  and  wildernesses  of  whole  nations.  Swell 
not  into  vehement  actions  which  imbroil  and  confound  the  earth  ; 
but  be  one  of  those  violent  ones  which  force  the  kingdom  of  heaven. 
If  thou  must  needs  rule,  be  Zeno's  king,*  and  enjoy  that  empire 
which  every  man  gives  himself.  He  who  is  thus  his  own  monarch 
contentedly  sways  the  sceptre  of  himself,  not  envying  the  glory  of 
crowned  heads  and  elohims"^  of  the  earth.  Could  the  world  unite  in 
the  practice  of  that  despised  train  of  virtues  which  the  divine  ethics 
of  our  Saviour  hath  so  inculcated  upon  us,  the  furious  face  of  things 
must  disappear  :  Eden  would  be  yet  to  be  found,  and  the  angels 
might  look  down,  not  with  pity,  but  joy  upon  us.     .     .     . 

If  thy  vessel  be  but  small  in  the  ocean  of  this  world,  if  meanness 
of  possessions'  be  thy  allotment  upon  earth,  forget  not  those  virtues 
which  the  great  Disposer  of  all  bids  thee  to  entertain  from  thy  qual- 
ity and  condition  ;  that  is,  submission,  humility,  content  of  mind, 
and  industry.  Content  may  dwell  in  all  stations.  To  be  low,  but 
above  contempt,  may  be  high  enough  to  be  happy.  But  many  of 
low  degree  may  be  higher  than  computed,  and  some  cubits  above 
the  common  commensuration  ;  for  in  all  states,  virtue  gives  qualifica- 
tions and  allowances,  which  make  out  defects.  Rough  diamonds  are 
sometimes  mistaken  for  pebbles  ;  and  meanness  may  be  rich  in  ac- 
complishments, which  riches  in  vain  desire.  If  our  merits  be  above 
our  stations,  if  our  intrinsical  value  be  greater  than  what  we  go  for, 
or  our  value  than  our  valuation,  and  if  we  stand  higher  in  God's  than 
in  the  censor's  book,^it  may  make  some  equitable  balance  in  the  ine- 
qualities of  this  world,  and  there  may  be  no  such  vast  chasm  or  gulf 
between  disparities  as  common  measures  determine.  The  divine 
eye  looks  tfpon  high  and  low  differently  from  that  of  man.  They 
who  seem  to  stand  upon  Olympus,  and  high  mounted  unto  our  eyes, 
may  be  but  in  the  valleys  and  low  ground  unto  his  ;  for  he  looks 
upon  those  as  highest  who  nearest  approach  his  divinity,  and  upon 
those  as  lowest  who  are  farthest  from  it.     .     .     . 

Value  the  judicious,  and  let  not  mere  acquests  in  minor  parts  of 
learning  gain  thy  pre-existimation.  'Tis  an  unjust  way  of  compute, 
to  magnify  a  weak  head  for  some  Latin  abilities  ;  and  to  undervalue 

^  That  is,  "  the  king  of  the  Stoics,"  whose  founder  was  Zeno,  and  who  held  thit  the  wise 
man  alone  had  power  and  royalty.  —  Dr.  J. 

2  An  error  in  form,  since  elohim  is  plural,  like  chertihim.  It  is  from  the  Hebrew,  and 
signifies    'the  lords,"  or  "the  gods." 

8  The  book  in  which  the  census,  or  account  of  every  man's  estate,  was  registered  among 
the  Romans.  —  Dr.  J. 


SIR   THOMAS   BROWNE.  47 

a  solid  judgment,  because  he  knows  not  the  genealogy  of  Hector. 
When  that  notable  king  of  France '  would  have  his  son  to  know  but 
one  sentence  in  Latin,  had  it  been  a  good  one,  perhaps  it  had  been 
enough.  Natural  parts  and  good  judgments  rule  the  world.  States 
are  not  governed  by  ergotisms.^  Many  have  ruled  well,  who  could 
not,  perhaps,  define  a  commonwealth  ;  and  they  who  understand  not 
the  globe  of  the  earth,  command  a  great  part  of  it.  Where  natural 
logic  prevails  not,  artificial  too  often  faileth.  Where  nature  fills  the 
sails,  the  vessel  goes  smoothly  on  ;  and  when  judgment  is  the  pilot, 
the  insurance  need  not  be  high.  When  industry  builds  upon  nature, 
we  may  expect  pyramids  :  where  that  foundation  is  wanting,  the 
structure  must  be  low.  They  do  most  by  books,  who  could  do  much 
without  them  ;  and  he  that  chiefly  owes  himself  unto  himself,  is  the 
substantial  man. 


[From  Religio  Medici.] 

Thus  there  are  two  books  from  whence  I  collect  my  divinity. 
Besides  that  written  one  of  God,  another  of  his  servant,  nature,  that 
universal  and  public  manuscript,  that  lies  expansed  unto  the  eyes 
of  all.  Those  that  never  saw  him  in  the  one  have  discovered  him 
in  the  other :  this  was  the  scripture  and  theology  of  the  heathens  ; 
the  natural  motion  of  the  sun  made  them  more  admire  him  than  its 
supernatural  station  did  the  children  of  Israel.  The  ordinary  effects 
of  nature  wrought  more  admiration  in  them  than,  in  the  other,  all 
his  miracles.  Surely  the  heathens  knew  better  how  to  join  and  read 
these  mystical  letters  than  we  Christians,  who  cast  a  more  careless 
eye  on  these  common  hieroglyphics,  and  disdain  to  suck  divinity 
from  the  flowers  of  nature.  Nor  do  I  so  forget  God  as  to  adore  the 
name  of  nature  ;  which  I  define  not,  with  the  schools,  to  be  the 
principle  of  motion  and  rest,  but  that  straight  and  regular  line,  that 
settled  and  constant  course  the  v»isdom  of  God  hath  ordained  the 
actions  of  his  creatures,  according  to  their  several  kinds.  To  make 
a  revolution  every  day  ^  the  nature  of  the  sun,  because  of  that  ne- 
cessary course  which  God  hath  ordained  it,  from  which  it  cannot 
swerve  but  by  a  faculty  from  that  voice  which  first  did  give  it  motion. 
Now  this  course  of  nature  God  seldom  alters  or  perverts  ;  but,  like 
an  excellent  artist,  hath  so  contrived  his  work,  that,  with  the  self- 
same instrument,  without  a  new  creation,  he  may  effect  his  obscurest 

1  Louis  XI.     "Qui  nescit  dissimulare  nescit  regnare"  —  Who  knows  not  how  to  feign 
knows  not  how  to  reign. 

'  Conchisions  deduced  according  to  the  forms  of  logic  ;  from  ergo,  therefore.  —  Dr.  J. 


•|.8  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

designs.  Thus  he  sweeteneth  the  water  with  a  wood,'  preserveth 
the  creatures  in  the  ark  which  the  blast  of  his  mouth  might  have  as 
easily  created  ;  —  for  God  is  like  a  skilful  geometrician,  who,  when 
more  easily,'  and  with  one  stroke  of  his  compass,  he  might  describe 
or  divide  a  right  line,  had  yet  rather  do  this  in  a  circle  or  longer  way, 
according  to  the  constituted  and  forelaid  principles  of  his  art :  yet 
this  rule  of  his  he  doth  sometimes  pervert,  to  acquaint  the  world 
with  his  prerogative,  lest  the  arrogancy  of  our  reason  should  ques- 
tion his  power,  and  conclude  he  could  not.  And  thus  I  call  the 
effects  of  nature  the  works  of  God,  whose  hand  and  instrument  she 
only  is  ;  and  therefore,  to  ascribe  his  actions  unto  her  is  to  devolve 
the  honor  of  the  principal  agent  upon  the  instrument ;  which  if  with 
reason  we  may  do,  then  let  our  hammers  rise  up  and  boast  they  have 
built  our  houses,  and  our  pens  receive  the  honor  of  our  writings.  I 
hold  there  is  a  general  beauty  in  the  works  of  God,  and  therefore  no 
deformity  in  any  kind  of  species  or  creature  whatsoever.  I  cannot 
tell  by  what  logic  we  call  a  toad,  a  bear,  or  an  elephant  ugly  ;  they 
being  created  in  those  outward  shapes  and  figures  which  best  express 
the  actions  of  their  inward  forms  ;  and  having  passed  that  general 
visitation  of  God,  who  saw  that  all  that  he  had  made  was  good,  that 
is,  conformable  to  his  will,  which  abhors  deformity,  and  is  the  rule 
of  order  and  beauty.  There  is  no  deformity  but  in  monstrosity  ; 
wherein,  notwithstanding,  there  is  a  kind  of  beauty  ;  nature  so  in- 
geniously contriving  the  irregular  parts,  as  they  become  sometimes 
more  remarkable  than  the  principal  fabric.  To  speak  yet  more 
narrowly,  there  was  never  anything  ugly  or  misshapen,  but  the 
chaos  ;  wherein,  notwithstanding,  to  speak  strictly,  there  was  no 
deformity,  because  no  form  ;  nor  was  it  yet  impregnate  by  the  voice 
of  God.  Now,  nature  is  not  at  variance  with  art,  nor  art  with  na- 
ture ;  they  being  both  the  servants  of  his  providence.  Art  is  the 
perfection  of  nature.  Were  the  world  now  as  it  was  the  sixth  day, 
there  were  yet  a  chaos.  Nature  hath  made  one  world,  and  art  an- 
other.   In  brief,  all  things  are  artificial ;  for  nature  is  the  art  of  God. 

^  See  Exod.  xv.  25. 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY.  49 


ABRAHAM    COWLEY. 

Abfanan  t^owley  was  bora  in  London  in  i6i8,  and  died  in  1667.  He  was  educated  at 
^«mb.idge.  Bemg  a  royalist,  he  went  abroad  during  the  Protectorate  and  remained 
twelve  years.  He  did  not  receive  the  rewards  he  expected  at  the  Restoration,  and  retired 
into  the  country  to  brood  &/er  his  disappointments.  His  poems  have  a  certain  grace  and 
elegance,  but  his  imagery  too  often  consists  of  mere  verbal  conceits.  It  is  seldom  that  a 
writer,  enjoying  such  universal  popularity  at  first,  has  sunk  into  such  entire  neglect.  More 
than  one  later  poet  has,  however,  been  under  obligations  to  Cowley. 

THE   GRASSHOPPER. 

Happy  insect  'i  A^hat  can  be 
In  happiness  compared  to  thee  ? 
Fed  with  nourishment  divine, 
The  dewy  morning's  gentle  wine  ! 
Nature  waits  upon  thee  still, 
And  thy  verdant  cup  does  fill ; 
'Tis  filled  wherever  thou  dost  tread, 
Nature's  self  s  thy  Ganymede. 
Thou  dost  drink,  and  dance,  i^nd  sing, 
Happier  than  the  happiest  king ! 
All  the  fields  which  thou  dost  see, 
All  the  plants  belong  to  thee  ; 
All  that  summer  hours  produce, 
Fertile  made  with  early  juice. 
Man  for  thee  does  sow  and  plough  ^ 
Farmer  he,  and  landlord  thou  ! 
Thou  dost  innocently  enjoy. 
Nor  does  thy  luxury  destroy. 
The  shepherd  gladly  heareth  thee, 
More  harmonious  than  he. 
Thee  country  hinds  with  gladness  hear, 
Prophet  of  the  ripened  year  ! 
Thee  Phcebus  loves,  and  does  inspire ; 
Phoebus  is  himself  thy  sire. 
To  thee,  of  all  things  upon  earth. 
Life  is  no  longer  than  thy  mirth. 
Happy  insect !  happy  thou. 
Dost  neither  age  nor  winter  know. 
But  when  thou'st  drunk,  and  danced,  and  sung 
Thy  fill,  the  flowery  leaves  among  — 
4 


$0  HAND-BOOK   OF  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

Voluptuous  and  wise  withal, 
Epicurean  animal !  — 
Satiated  with  thy  summer  feast, 
Thou  retir'st  to  endless  rest. 


EDWARD    HYDE. 

Edward  Hyde,  afterwards  raised  to  the  peerage  as  Earl  of  Clarendon,  was  bom  in  i6og, 
and  was  bred  to  the  bar.  He  was  a  royalist,  and,  when  the  catastrophe  came,  was  an  ac- 
tive servant  of  King  Charles  II.  in  exile.  At  the  Restoration  Hyde  was  appointed  Lord 
Chancellor.  His  daughter  Anne  was  soon  after  married  to  the  Duke  of  York,  afterwards 
James  II.  He  subsequently  lost  place  and  favor  ;  and,  being  once  more  in  exile,  he  wrote 
his  "  History  of  the  Rebellion."  This  work  cannot  be  commended  as  a  model  of  style, 
but  it  is  full  of  vigorously  drawn  portraits,  and  of  interesting  personal  narratives.  Claren- 
don died  in  1674. 

CHARACTER   OF   CROMWELL. 

He  was  one  of  those  men,  quos  intuperare  ne  iniinici  quidem 
possunt,  nisi  ut  simttl  laudent  —  whom  his  very  enemies  could  not 
condemn  without  commending  him  at  the  same  time  ;  for  he  could 
never  have  done  half  that  mischief  without  great  parts  of  courage, 
industry,  and  judgment.  He  must  have  had  a  wonderful  under- 
standing in  the  natures  and  humors  of  men,  and  as  great  a  dexter- 
ity in  applying  them ;  who,  from  a  private  and  obscure  birth,  — 
though  of  a  good  family, — without  interest  or  estate,  alliance  or 
friendship,  could  raise  himself  to  such  a  height,  and  compound  and 
knead  such  opposite  and  contradictory  tempers,  humors,  and  inter- 
ests into  a  consistence,  that  contributed  to  his  designs,  and  to  their 
own  destruction  ;  whilst  himself  grew  insensibly  powerful  enough 
to  cut  off  those  by  whom  he  had  chmbed,  in  the  instant  that  they 
projected  to  demolish  their  own  building.  What  was  said  of 
Cinna  may  very  justly  be  said  of  him  :  "He  attempted  those 
things  which  no  good  man  durst  have  ventured  on,  and  achieved 
those  in  which  none  but  a  valiant  and  great  man  could  have  suc- 
ceeded." Without  doubt,  no  man  with  more  wickedness  ever  at- 
tempted anything,  or  brought  to  pass  what  he  desired  more  wickedly, 
more  in  the  face  and  contempt  of  religion  and  moral  honesty.  Yet 
wickedness  as  great  as  his  could  never  have  accomplished  those 
designs  without  the  assistance  of  a  great  spirit,  an  admirable  cir- 
cumspection and  sagacity,  and  a  most  magnanimous  resolution. 

When  he  appeared  first  in  the  Parliament,  he  seemed  to  have  a 


EDWARD    HYDE.  5 1 

person  in  no  degree  gracious,  no  ornament  of  discourse,  none  of 
those  talents  which  use  to  concihate  the  affections  of  the  stander- 
by.  Yet,  as  he  grew  into  place  and  authority,  his  parts  seemed  to 
be  raised,  as  if  he  had  had  concealed  faculties,  till  he  had  occasion 
to  use  them ;  and  when  he  was  to  act  the  part  of  a  great  man,  he 
did  it  without  any  indecency,  notwithstanding  the  want  of  custom. 

After  he  was  confirmed  and  invested  Protector  by  the  humble 
petition  and  advice,  he  consulted  with  very  few  upon  any  action  of 
importance,  nor  communicated  any  enterprise  he  resolved  upon  with 
more  than  those  who  were  to  have  principal  parts  in  the  execution 
of  it ;  nor  with  them  sooner  than  was  absolutely  necessary.  What 
he  once  resolved,  in  which  he  was  not  rash,  he  would  not  be  dis- 
suaded from,  nor  endure  any  contradiction  of  his  power  and  author- 
ity, but  extorted  obedience  from  them  who  were  not  willing  to 
yield  it.     .     .     . 

Thus  he  subdued  a  spirit  that  had  been  often  troublesome  to  the 
most  sovereign  power,  and  made  Westminster  Hall  as  obedient  and 
subservient  to  his  commands  as  any  of  the  rest  of  his  quarters.  In 
all  other  matters,  which  did  not  concern  the  life  of  his  jurisdiction, 
he  seemed  to  have  great  reverence  for  the  law,  rarely  interposing 
between  party  and  party.  As  he  proceeded  with  this  kind  of  indig- 
nation and  haughtiness  with  those  who  were  refractory,  and  durst 
contend  with  his  greatness,  so  towards  all  who  compHed  with  his 
good  pleasure,  and  courted  his  protection,  he  used  great  civihty,  gen- 
erosity, and  bounty. 

To  reduce  three  nations,  which  perfectly  hated  him,  to  an  entire 
obedience  to  all  his  dictates  ;  to  awe  and  govern  those  nations  by 
an  army  that  was  indevoted  to  him,  and  wished  his  ruin,  was  an  in- 
stance of  a  very  prodigious  address.  But  his  greatness  at  home 
was  but  a  shadow  of  the  glory  he  had  abroad.  It  was  hard  to  dis- 
cover which  feared  him  most,  France,  Spain,  or  the  Low  Countries, 
where  his  friendship  was  current  at  the  value  he  put  upon  it.  As 
they  did  all  sacrifice  their  honor  and  their  interest  to  his  pleasure, 
so  there  is  nothing  he  could  have  demanded  that  either  of  them 
would  have  denied  him.     .     .     . 

To  conclude  his  character :  Cromwell  was  not  so  far  a  man  of 
blood  as  to  follow  Machiavel's  method  ;  which  prescribes,  upon  a 
total  alteration  of  government,  as  a  thing  absolutely  necessary,  to 
cut  off  all  the  heads  of  those,  and  extirpate  their  famihes,  who  are 
friends  to  the  old  one.  It  was  confidently  reported,  that  in  the 
council  of  officers  it  was  more  than  once  proposed  "that  there 


52  HAND-BOOK   OP   ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

might  be  a  general  massacre  of  all  the  royal  party,  as  the  only  ex- 
pedient to  secure  the  government,"  but  that  Cromwell  would  never 
consent  to  it ;  it  may  be  out  of  too  great  a  contempt  of  his  enemies. 
In  a  word,  as  he  was  guilty  of  many  crimes  against  which  damna- 
tion is  denounced,  and  for  which  hell-fire  is  prepared,  so  he  had 
some  good  qualities  which  have  caused  the  memory  of  some  men  in 
all  ages  to  be  celebrated ;  and  he  will  be  looked  upon  by  posterity 
^s  a  brave,  wicked  man. 


JOHN    MILTON. 

John  Milton  was  born  in  London  in  1608,  and  died  in  1674.  In  religion  he  was  a  Puri- 
tan, in  politics  a  defender  of  liberty  against  royal  prerogative,  but  in  taste  and  refinement 
more  nearly  allied  to  the  party  of  the  Cavaliers.  The  life  of  this  great  man  is  too  well 
known  to  require  more  than  a  brief  note.  His  eloquent  efforts  in  defence  of  the  popular 
cause,  his  public  services  under  Cromwell,  his  matrimonial  infelicities,  and  his  blindness  are 
matters  of  familiar  knowledge  wherever  our  language  is  spoken.  While  to  Shakespeare, 
as  first  of  poets,  the  homage  of  the  world  is  rightfully  given,  it  is  difficult  to  limit  the  ad- 
miration due  to  the  genius,  character,  learning,  and  works  of  Milton.  The  "Paradise 
Lost  "  is  but  a  synonyme  for  sublimity  ;  "  Lycidas  "  has  no  rival  in  its  classic  beauty ;  the 
varied  pictures  in  his  panoramas  of  gayety  and  pensiveness  are  as  fresh  to-day  as  when  first 
drawn  ;  and  the  force,  the  majesty,  and  the  music  of  his  prose  periods  first  taught  scholars 
the  capabilities  of  the  English  tongue.  That  he  was  indebted  to  others  for  hints  and  sug- 
gestions is  no  reason  for  disparagement.  His  obligations  to  Dante,  to  Fletcher,  and  others 
are  obvious  enough  ;  ' '  but  he  was  a  royal  borrower  ;  the  gold  he  took  was  stamped  with  his 
image,  and  made  his  own  forever." 

[Selections  from   Comus.]  ■ 
The  Lady  enters. 

Lady.     This  way  the  noise  was,  if  mine  ear  be  true, 
My  best  guide  now  :  methonght  it  was  the  sound 
Of  riot  and  ill -managed  merriment, 
Such  as  the  jocund  flute,  or  gamesome  pipe, 
Stirs  up  among  the  loose  unlettered  hinds, 
When  for  their  teeming  flocks  and  granges  full, 
In  wanton  dance  they  praise  the  bounteous  Pan, 
And  thank  the  gods  amiss.     I  should  be  loath 
To  meet  the  rudeness  and  swilled  insolence 
Of  such  late  wassailers  ;  yet,  O  !  where  else 
Shall  I  inform  my  unacquainted  feet 
In  the  blind  mazes  of  this  tangled  wood  ? 
My  brothers,  when  they  saw  me  wearied  out 
With  this  long  way,  resolving  here  to  lodge 
Under  the  spreading  favor  of  these  pines, 


JOHN    MILTON.  53 

Stepped  as  they  said,  to  the  next  thicket-side, 

To  bring  me  berries,  or  such  cooling  fruit 

As  the  kind,  hospitable  woods  provide. 

They  left  me  then,  when  the  gray-hooded  Even, 

Like  a  sad  votarist  in  palmer's  weed, 

Rose  from  the  hindmost  wheels  of  Phoebus'  wain. 

But  where  they  are,  and  why  they  came  not  back. 

Is  now  the  labor  of  my  thoughts  ;  'tis  likeHest 

They  had  engaged  their  wandering  steps  too  far ; 

And  envious  darkness,  ere  they  could  return, 

Had  stole  them  from  me  :  else,  O  thievish  Night, 

Why  shouldst  thou,  but  for  some  felonious  end. 

In  thy  dark  lantern  thus  close  up  the  stars, 

That  Nature  hung  in  heaven,  and  filled  their  lamps 

With  everlasting  oil,  to  give  due  light 

To  the  misled  and  lonely  traveller  ? 

This  is  the  place,  as  well  as  I  may  guess. 

Whence  even  now  the  tumult  of  loud  mirth 

Was  rife,  and  perfect  in  my  listening  ear  ; 

Yet  nought  but  single  darkness  do  I  find. 

What  might  this  be  1     A  thousand  fantasies 

Begin  to  throng  into  my  memory. 

Of  calHng  shapes,  and  beckoning  shadows  dire. 

And  aery  tongues  that  syllable  men's  names 

On  sands,  and  shores,  and  desert  wildernesses. 

These  thoughts  may  startle  well,  but  not  astound 

The  virtuous  mind,  that  ever  walks  attended 

By  a  strong-siding  champion.  Conscience.  — 

O,  welcome,  pure-eyed  Faith  ;  white-handed  Hope, 

Thou  hovering  angel  girt  with  golden  wings  ; 

And  thou,  unblemished  form  of  Chastity  ! 

I  see  ye  visibly,  and  now  believe 

That  He,  the  Supreme  Good,  to  whom  all  things  ill 

Are  but  as  slavish  officers  of  vengeance, 

Would  send  a  glistering  guardian,  if  need  were, 

To  keep  my  life  and  honor  unassailed. 

Was  I  deceived,  or  did  a  sable  cloud 

Turn  forth  her  silver  lining  on  the  night  ? 

I  did  not  err ;  there  does  a  sable  cloud 

Turn  forth  her  silver  lining  on  the  night. 

And  casts  a  gleam  over  this  tufted  grove : 


54  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

I  cannot  halloo  to  my  brothers,  but 
Such  noise  as  I  can  make  to  be  heard  farthest, 
PU  venture  ;  for  my  new  enlivened  spirits 
Prompt  me  :  and  they  perhaps  are  not  far  off. 


Sweet  Echo,  sweetest  nymph,  that  livest  unseen 
Within  thy  aery  shell. 
By  slow  Meander's  margent  green. 
And  in  the  violet-embroidered  vale, 

Where  the  love-lorn  nightingale 
Nightly  to  thee  her  sad  song  mourneth  well ; 
Canst  thou  not  tell  me  of  a  gentle  pair 
That  likest  thy  Narcissus  are  .'' 
O,  if  thou  have 
Hid  them  in  some  flowery  cave, 

Tell  me  but  where. 
Sweet  queen  of  parly,  daughter  of  the  sphere  ! 
So  mayst  thou  be  translated  to  the  skies, 
And  give  resounding  grace  to  all  Heaven's  harmonies. 

Enter  Com  us. 

Com.     Can  any  mortal  mixture  of  earth's  mould 
Breathe  such  divine  enchanting  ravishment  ? 
Sure  something  holy  lodges  in  that  breast, 
And  with  these  raptures  moves  the  vocal  air 
To  testify  his  hidden  residence. 
How  sweetly  did  they  float  upon  the  wings 
Of  silence,  through  the  empty-vaulted  night, 
At  every  fall  smoothing  the  raven-down 
Of  darkness,  till  it  smiled  !     I  have  oft  heard 
My  mother  Circe  with  the  sirens  three, 
Amidst  the  flowery-kirtled  Naiades, 
Culling  their  potent  herbs,  and  baleful  drugs  ; 
Who,  as  they  sung,  would  take  the  prisoned  soul. 
And  lap  it  in  Elysium  :   Scylla  wept, 
And  chid  her  barking  waves  into  attention, 
And  fell  Charybdis  murmured  soft  applause  : 
Yet  they  in  pleasing  slumber  lulled  the  sense, 
And  in  sweet  madness  robbed  it  of  itself; 
But  such  a  sacred  and  home-felt  delight, 
Such  sober  certainty  of  waking  bliss. 


JOHN   MILTON.  55 

I  never  heard  till  now.  —  I  '11  speak  to  her, 
And  she  shdli  be  my  queen. 

Enter  Attendant  Spirit. 

Spir.     This  evening  late,  by  then  the  chewing  flocks 
Had  ta'en  their  supper  on  the  savory  herb 
Of  knot-grass  dew-besprent,  and  were  in  fold, 
I  sat  me  down  to  watch  upon  a  bank 
With  ivy  canopied,  and  interwove 
With  flaunting  honey-suckle  ;  and  began. 
Wrapped  in  a  pleasing  fit  of  melancholy, 
To  meditate  my  rural  minstrelsy. 
Till  fancy  had  her  fill ;  but,  ere  a  close, 
The  wonted  roar  was  up  amidst  the  woods. 
And  filled  the  air  with  barbarous  dissonance  ; 
At  which  I  ceased,  and  listened  them  a  while, 
Till  an  unusual  stop  of  sudden  silence 
Gave  respite  to  the  drowsy  frighted  steeds, 
That  draw  the  litter  of  close-curtained  sleep  : 
At  last  a  soft  and  solemn-breathing  sound 
Rose  hke  a  stream  of  rich  distilled  perfumes, 
And  stole  upon  the  air,  that  even  Silence 
Was  took  ere  she  was  ware,  and  wished  she  might 
Deny  her  nature,  and  be  never  more, 
Still  to  be  so  displaced.     I  was  all  ear. 
And  took  in  strains  that  might  create  a  soul 
Under  the  ribs  of  death  :   but,  O  !  ere  long, 
Too  well  I  did  perceive  it  was  the  voice 
Of  my  most  honored  Lady,  your  dear  sister. 
Amazed  I  stood,  harrowed  with  grief  and  fear, 
And,  O  poor  hapless  nightingale,  thought  I, 
How  sweet  thou  sing'st,  how  near  the  deadly  snare ! 

SONG. 

Sabrina  fair. 

Listen  where  thou  art  sitting 
Under  the  glassy,  cool,  translucent  wave, 

In  twisted  braids  of  lilies  knitting 
The  loose  train  of  thy  amber-dropping  hair : 

Listen  for  dear  honor's  sake, 

Goddess  of  the  silver  lake  ; 
Listen,  and  save  ! 


56  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

Listen,  and  appear  to  us, 

In  name  of  great  Oceanus ; 

By  the  earth-shaking  Neptune's  mace. 

And  Tethys'  grave  majestic  pace  ; 

By  hoary  Nereus'  wrinkled  look, 

And  the  Carpathian  wizard's  hook ; 

By  scaly  Triton's  winding  shell, 

And  old  soothsaying  Glaucus'  spell ; 

By  Leucothea's  lovely  hands. 

And  her  son  that  rules  the  strands  ; 

By  Thetis'  tinsel-slippered  feet. 

And  the  songs  of  sirens  sweet  ; 

By  dead  Parthenope's  dear  tomb. 

And  fair  Ligea's  golden  comb. 

Wherewith  she  sits  on  diamond  rocks, 

Sleeking  her  soft  alluring  locks  ; 

By  all  the  nymphs  that  nightly  dance 

Upon  thy  streams  with  wily  glance  ; 

Rise,  rise,  and  heave  thy  rosy  head 

From  thy  coral-paven  bed, 

And  bridle  in  thy  headlong  wave. 

Till  thou  our  summons  answered  have. 

Listen,  and  save  I 

Sabrina  rises,  attended  by  Vi''ater  Nymphs,  and  sings. 

By  the  rushy-fringed  bank. 

Where  grows  the  willow,  and  the  osier  dank. 

My  sliding  chariot  stays, 
Thick  set  with  agate,  and  the  azure  sheen 
Of  turkis  blue,  and  emerald  green. 

That  in  the  channel  strays  ; 
Whilst  from  off  the  waters  fleet 
Thus  I  set  my  printless  feet 
O'er  the  cowslip's  velvet  head, 

That  bends  not  as  I  tread  : 
Gentle  swain,  at  thy  request, 

I  am  here. 

The  Dances  ended,  the  SpiRrr  epilogizes. 

Spir.     To  the  ocean  now  I  fly, 
And  those  happy  climes  that  lie 


JOHN    MILTON.  57 

Where  day  never  shuts  his  eye, 
Up  in  the  broad  fields  of  the_sky : 
There  I  suck  the  hquid  air 
All  amidst  the  gardens  fair  _ 
Of  Hesperus,  and  his  daughters  three 
That  sing  about  the  golden  tree  : 
Along  the  crisped  shades  and  bowers 
Revels  the  spruce  and  jocund  Spring  ; 
The  Graces,  and  the  rosy-bosomed  Hours^ 
Thither  all  their  bounties  bring  ; 
There  eternal  Summer  dwells, 
And  west  winds,  with  musky  wing, 
About  the  cedared  alleys  fling 
Nard  and  cassia's  balmy  smells. 
Iris  there  with  humid  bow 
Waters  the  odorous  banks,  that  blow 
Flowers  of  more  mingled  hue 
Than  her  purfled  scarf  can  shew  ; 
And  drenches  with  Elysian  dew 
(List,  mortals,  if  your  ears  be  true) 
Beds  of  hyacinth  and  roses. 
Where  young  Adonis  oft  reposes, 
Waxing  well  of  his  deep  wound 
In  slumber  soft,  and  on  the  ground 
Sadly  sits  the  Assyrian  queen  : 
But  far  above  in  spangled  sheen 
Celestial  Cupid,  her  famed  son,  advanced, 
Holds  his  dear  Pysche  sweet  entranced, 
After  her  wandering  labors  long, 
Till  free  consent  the  gods  among 
Make  her  his  eternal  bride. 
And  from  her  fair  unspotted  side 
Two  blissful  twins  are  to  be  born. 
Youth  and  Joy  ;  so  Jove  hath  sworn. 
But  now  my  task  is  smoothly  done, 
I  can  fly,  or  I  can  run. 
Quickly  to  the  green  earth's  end, 
Where  the  bowed  welkin  slow  doth  bend ; 
And  from  thence  can  soar  as  soon 
To  the  corners  of  the  moon. 


53  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

Mortals,  that  would  follow  me, 
Love  Virtue  ;  she  alone  is  free  : 
She  can  teach  ye  how  to  climb 
Higher  than  the  sphery  chime  ; 
Or,  if  Virtue  feeble  were, 
Heaven  itself  would  stoop  to  her. 


LYCIDAS. 

In  this  poem  the  author  laments  the  death  of  a  friend  drowned  in  the  Irish  Channel 

Yet  once  more,  O  ye  laurels,  and  once  more 
Ye  myrtles  brown,  with  ivy  never  sere, 
I  come  to  pluck  your  berries  harsh  and  crude  ; 
And,  with  forced  fingers  rude, 
Shatter  your  leaves  before  the  mellowing  year  : 
Bitter  constraint,  and  sad  occasion  dear. 
Compels  me  to  disturb  your  season  due  : 
For  Lycidas  is  dead,  dead  ere  his  prime. 
Young  Lycidas,  and  hath  not  left  his  peer. 
Who  would  not  sing  for  Lycidas  ?     He  knew 
Himself  to  sing,  and  build  the  lofty  rhyme. 
He  must  not  float  upon  his  watery  bier 
Unwept,  and  welter  to  the  parching  wind. 
Without  the  meed  of  some  melodious  tear. 

Begin  then.  Sisters  of  the  sacred  well. 
That  from  beneath  the  seat  of  Jove  doth  spring ; 
Begin,  and  somewhat  loudly  sweep  the  string. 
Hence  with  denial  vain,  and  coy  excuse  ; 
So  may  some  gentle  Muse 
With  lucky  words  favor  my  destined  urn  ; 
And,  as  he  passes,  turn. 
And  bid  fair  peace  be  to  my  sable  shroud. 

For  we  were  nursed  upon  the  self-same  hill ; 
Fed  the  same  flock  by  fountain,  shade,  and  rill. 
Together  both,  ere  the  high  lawns  appeared 
Under  the  opening  eyelids  of  the  morn. 
We  drove  afield  ;  and  both  together  heard 
What  time  the  gray-fly  winds  her  sultry  horn. 
Battening  our  flocks  with  the  fresh  dews  of  night. 
Oft  till  the  star,  that  rose  at  evening  bright, 


JOHN   MILTON.  59 

Toward  heaven's  descent  had  sloped  his  westering  wheel. 

Meanwhile  the  rural  ditties  were  not  mute, 

Tempered  to  the  oaten  flute  ; 

Rough  Satyrs  danced,  and  Fauns  with  cloven  heel 

From  the  glad  sound  would  not  be  absent  long  ; 

And  old  Damcetas  loved  to  hear  our  song. 

But,  O,  the  heavy  change,  now  thou  art  gone, 
Now  thou  art  gone,  and  never  must  return  ! 
Thee,  shepherd,  thee,  the  woods,  and  desert  caves, 
With  wild  thyme  and  the  gadding  vine  o'ergrown, 
And  all  their  echoes,  mourn  : 
The  willows,  and  the  hazel  copses  green, 
Shall  now  no  more  be  seen 
Fanning  their  joyous  leaves  to  thy  Soft  lays. 
As  killing  as  the  canker  to  the  rose. 
Or  taint-worm  to  the  weanling  herds  that  graze, 
Or  frost  to  flowers,  that  their  gay  wardrobe  wear, 
When  first  the  white-thorn  blows  ;  — 
Such,  Lycidas,  thy  loss  to  shepherd's  ear. 

Where  were  ye.  Nymphs,  when  the  remorseless  deep 
Closed  o'er  the  head  of  your  loved  Lycidas  ? 
For  neither  were  ye  playing  on  the  steep. 
Where  your  old  bards,  the  famous  Druids,  lie  ; 
Nor  on  the  shaggy  top  of  Mona  high  ; 
Nor  yet  where  Deva  spreads  her  wizard  stream. 
Ay  me  !  I  fondly  dream  ! 

Had  ye  been  there -=— for  what  could  that  have  done? 
What  could  the  Muse  herself  that  Orpheus  bore. 
The  Muse  herself,  for  her  enchanting  son. 
Whom  universal  Nature  did  lament, 
When,  by  the  rout  that  made  the  hideous  roar, 
His  gory  visage  down  the  stream  was  sent, 
Down  the  swift  Hebrus  to  the  Lesbian  shore  ? 

Alas  !  what  boots  it  with  uncessant  care 
To  tend  the  homely,  slighted,  shepherd's  trade, 
And  strictly  meditate  the  thankless  Muse  ? 
Were  it  not  better  done,  as  others  use. 
To  sport  with  AmaryUis  in  the  shade, 
Or  with  the  tangles  of  Neaera's  hair  ? 
Fame  is  the  spur  that  the  clear  spirit  doth  raise, 
(That  last  infirmity  of  noble  mind) 


So  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

To  scorn  delights,  and  live  laborious  days  ; 

But  the  fair  guerdon  when  we  hoped  to  find, 

And  think  to  burst  out  into  sudden  blaze. 

Comes  the  blind  Fury  with  the  abhorred  shears. 

And  slits  the  thin-spun  life.     "  But  not  the  praise," 

Phoebus  replied,  and  touched  my  trembling  ears  : 

"  Fame  is  no  plant  that  grows  on  mortal  soil, 

Nor  in  the  glistering  foil 

Set  off  to  the  world,  nor  in  broad  rumor  lies  ; 

But  lives  and  spreads  aloft  by  those  pure  eyes, 

And  perfect  witness  of  all-judging  Jove  : 

As  he  pronounces  lastly  on  each  deed, 

Of  so  much  fame  in  heaven  expect  thy  meed." 

O,  fountain  Arethuse,  and  thou  honored  flood. 
Smooth-sliding  Mincius,  crowned  with  vocal  reeds  ! 
That  strain  I  heard  was  of  a  higher  mood : 
But  now  my  oat  proceeds, 
And  listens  to  the  herald  of  the  sea 
That  came  in  Neptune's  plea : 
He  asked  the  waves,  and  asked  the  felon  winds, 
What  hard  mishap  hath  doomed  this  gentle  swain  ? 
And  questioned  every  gust  of  rugged  wings 
That  blows  from  off  each  beaked  promontory  : 
They  knew  not  of  his  story  ; 
And  sage  Hippotades  their  answer  brings. 
That  not  a  blast  was  from  his  dungeon  strayed  ; 
The  air  was  calm,  and  on  the  level  brine 
Sleek  Panope  with  all  her  sisters  played. 
It  was  that  fatal  and  perfidious  bark. 
Built  in  the  eclipse,  and  rigged  with  curses  dark, 
That  sunk  so  low  that  sacred  head  of  thine. 

Next  Camus,  reverend  sire,  went  footing  slow, 
His  mantle  hairy,  and  his  bonnet  sedge. 
Inwrought  with  figures  dim,  and  on  the  edge 
Like  to  that  sanguine  flower,  inscribed  with  woe. 
Ah  !  who  hath  reft,  quoth  he,  my  dearest  pledge  ? 
Last  came,  and  last  did  go, 
The  pilot  of  the  Galilean  lake  : 
Two  massy  keys  he  bore  of  metals  twain  ; 
The  golden  opes,  the  iron  shuts  amain  : 
He  shook  his  mitred  locks,  and  stern  bespake  :  — 


JOHN   MILTON.  6l 

How  well  could  I  have  spared  for  thee,  young  swain, 

Enow  of  such,  as  for  their  bellies'  sake 

Creep,  and  intrude,  and  climb  into  the  fold  ! 

Of  other  care  they  little  reckoning  make. 

Than  how  to  scramble  at  the  shearers'  feast, 

And  shove  away  the  worthy  bidden  guest  ! 

BHnd  mouths  !  that  scarce  themselves  know  how  to  hold 

A  sheephook,  or  have  learned  aught  else  the  least 

That  to  the  faithful  herdman's  art  belongs  ! 

What  recks  it  them  ?     What  need  they  ?     They  are  sped ; 

And,  when  they  list,  their  lean  and  flashy  songs 

Grate  on  their  scrannel  pipes  of  wretched  straw : 

The  hungry  sheep  look  up,  and  are  not  fed ; 

But  swollen  with  wind,  and  the  rank  mist  they  draw, 

Rot  inwardly,  and  foul  contagion  spread  : 

Besides  what  the  grim  wolf  with  privy  paw 

Daily  devours  apace  and  nothing  said : 

But  that  two-handed  engine  at  the  door 

Stands  ready  to  smite  once,  and  smite  no  more. 

Return,  Alpheus  ;  the  dread  voice  is  past. 
That  shrunk  thy  streams  ;  return,  Sicilian  Muse, 
And  call  the  vales,  and  bid  them  hither  cast 
Their  bells  and  flowerets  of  a  thousand  hues. 
Ye  valleys  low,  where  the  mild  whispers  use 
Of  shades  and  wanton  winds  and  gushing  brooks, 
On  whose  fresh  lap  the  swart-star  sparely  looks  ; 
Throw  hither  all  your  quaint  enamelled  eyes, 
That  on  the  green  turf  suck  the  honeyed  showers. 
And  purple  all  the  ground  with  vernal  flowers. 
Bring  the  rathe  primrose  that  forsaken  dies, 
The  tufted  crow- toe  and  pale  jessamine. 
The  white  pink,  and  the  pansy  freaked  with  jet, 
The  glowing  violet. 

The  musk-rose,  and  the  well-attired  woodbine, 
With  cowslips  wan  that  hang  the  pensive  head, 
And  every  flower  that  sad  embroidery  wears  : 
Bid  amaranthus  all  his  beauty  shed. 
And  daifadillies  fill  their  cups  with  tears, 
To  strew  the  laureate  hearse  where  Lycid  lies. 
For,  so  to  interpose  a  little  ease, 
Let  our  frail  thoughts  dally  with  false  surmise. 


62  HAND-BOOK    OF   ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

Ay  me  !     Whilst  thee  the  shores  and  sounding  seas 
Wash  far  away,  where'er  thy  bones  are  hurled ; 
Whether  beyond  the  stormy  Hebrides, 
Where  thou,  perhaps,  under  the  whelming  tide, 
Visit'st  the  bottom  of  the  monstrous  world  ; 
Or  whether  thou,  to  our  moist  vows  denied, 
Sleep'st  by  the  fable  of  Bellerus  old, 
Where  the  great  vision  of  the  guarded  mount  » 
Looks  toward  Namancos  and  Bayona's  hold  ; 
Look  homeward,  angel,  now  ;  and  melt  with  ruth  : 
And,  O  ye  dolphins,  waft  the  hapless  youth. 

Weep  no  more,  woful  shepherds,  weep  no  more  ; 
For  Lycidas  your  sorrow  is  not  dead. 
Sunk  though  he  be  beneath  the  watery  floor : 
So  sinks  the  day-star  in  the  ocean  bed, 
And  yet  anon  repairs  his  drooping  head. 
And  tricks  his  beams,  and  with  new-spangled  ore 
Flames  in  the  forehead  of  the  morning  sky : 
So  Lycidas  sunk  low,  but  mounted  high. 
Through  the  dear  might  of  Him  that  walked  the  waves 
Where  other  groves,  and  other  streams  along, 
With  nectar  pure  his  oozy  locks  he  laves, 
And  hears  the  unexpressive  nuptial  song. 
In  the  blest  kingdoms  meek  of  joy  and  love. 
There  entertain  him  all  the  saints  above. 
In  solemn  troops,  and  sweet  societies. 
That  sing,  and  singing,  in  their  glory  move. 
And  wipe  the  tears  forever  from  his  eyes. 
Now,  Lycidas,  the  shepherds  weep  no  more  : 
Henceforth  thou  art  the  Genius  of  the  shore, 
In  thy  large  recompense,  and  shalt  be  good 
To  all  that  wander  in  that  perilous  flood. 

Thus  sang  the  uncouth  swain  to  the  oaks  and  rills, 
While  the  still  morn  went  out  with  sandals  gray ; 
He  touched  the  tender  stops  of  various  quills, 
With  eager  thought  warbling  his  Doric  lay : 
And  now  the  sun  had  stretched  out  all  the  hills. 
And  now  was  dropped  into  the  western  bay : 
At  last  he  rose,  and  twitched  his  mantle  blue : 
To-morrow  to  fresh  woods  and  pastures  new. 


JOHN   MILTON. 


63 


L' ALLEGRO. 


Hence,  loathed  Melancholy, 

Of  Cerberus  and  blackest  Midnight  bom, 

In  Stygian  cave  forlorn, 

'Mongst  horrid  shapes,  and  shrieks,  and 
sights  unholy  ! 
Find  out  some  uncouth  cell, 

Where  brooding  darkness  spreads  his  jeal- 
ous wings, 

And  the  night-raven  sings : 
There,  under  ebon  shades,  and  low-browed 

rocks, 
As  ragged  as  thy  locks. 

In  dark  Cimmerian  desert  ever  dwell. 

But  come,  thou  goddess  fair  and  free. 
In  Heaven  yclep'd  Euphrosyne, 
And  by  men,  heart-easing  Mirth  ; 
Whom  lovely  Venus,  at  a  birth. 
With  two  sister  Graces  more. 
To  ivy-crowned  Bacchus  bore  : 

Haste  thee,  nymph,  and  bring  with  thee 
Jest,  and  youthful  jollity, 
Quips,  and  cranks,  and  wanton  wiles, 
Nods,  and  becks,  and  wreathed  smiles. 
Such  as  hang  on  Hebe's  cheek. 
And  love  to  live  in  dimple  sleek  ; 
Sport  that  wrinkled  Care  derides. 
And  Laughter  holding  both  his  sides. 
Come,  and  trip  it  as  you  go. 
On  the  light  fantastic  toe  ; 
And  in  thy  right  hand  lead  with  thee 
The  mountain-nymph,  sweet  Liberty ; 
And,  if  I  give  thee  honor  due. 
Mirth,  admit  me  of  thy  crew, 
To  live  with  her,  and  live  with  thee,     ' 
In  unreproved  pleasures  free  ; 
To  hear  the  lark  begin  his  flight, 
And  singing,  startle  the  dull  night, 
From  his  watch-tower  in  the  skies. 
Till  the  dappled  dawn  doth  rise  ; 
Then  to  come,  in  spite  of  sorrow, 
And  at  my  window  bid  good  morrow, 
Through  the  sweet-brier,  or  the  vine, 
Or  the  twisted  eglantine : 
While  the  cock  with  lively  din, 
Scatters  the  rear  of  Darkness  thin  ; 
And  to  the  stack,  or  the  barn-door. 
Stoutly  struts  his  dames  before  : 
Oft  listening  how  the  hounds  and  horn 
Cheerly  rouse  the  slumbering  mom. 
From  the  side  of  some  hoar  hill. 
Through  the  high  wood  echoing  shrill ; 
Some  time  walking,  not  unseen. 
By  hedge-row  elms,  on  hillocks  green. 


Right  against  the  eastern  gate. 
Where  the  great  sun  begins  his  state, 
Robed  in  flames,  and  amber  light. 
The  clouds  in  thousand  liveries  dight ; 
While  the  ploughman,  near  at  hand. 
Whistles  o'er  the  furrowed  land. 
And  the  milkmaid  singeth  blithe. 
And  the  mower  whets  his  scythe. 
And  every  shepherd  tells  his  tale 
Under  the  hawthorn  in  the  dale. 

Straight  mine  eye  hath  caught  new  pleas- 
ures, 
Whilst  the  landscape  round  it  measures  ; 
Russet  lawns,  and  fallows  gray. 
Where  the  nibbling  flocks  do  stray ; 
Mountains  on  whose  barren  breast 
The  laboring  clouds  do  often  rest ; 
Meadows  trim  with  daisies  pied. 
Shallow  brooks,  and  rivers  wide : 
Towers  and  battlements  it  sees 
Bosomed  high  in  tufted  trees. 
Where  perhaps  some  beauty  lies, 
Tlie  Cynosure  of  neighboring  eyes. 
Hard  by,  a  cottage  chimney  smokes 
From  betwixt  two  aged  oaks. 
Where  Corydon  and  Thyrsis,  met. 
Are  at  their  savory  dinner  set 
Of  herbs  and  other  country  messes, 
Which  the  neat-handed  Phillis  dresses  ; 
And  then  in  haste  her  bower  she  leaves, 
With  Thestylis  to  bind  the  sheaves  ; 
Or,  if  the  earlier  season  lead. 
To  the  tann'd  haycock  in  the  mead. 
Sometimes  with  secure  delight 
The  upland  hamlets  will  invite. 
When  the  merry  bells  ring  round. 
And  the  jocund  rebecs  sound 
To  many  a  youth  and  many  a  maid. 
Dancing  in  the  checkered  shade  ; 
And  young  and  old  come  forth  to  play 
On  a  sunshine  holiday, 
Till  the  livelong  daylight  fail : 
Then  to  the  spicy  nut-brown  ale. 
With  stories  told  of  many  a  feat. 
How  faery  Mab  the  junkets  eat : 
She  was  pinched  and  pulled  she  said  ; 
And  he,  by  friar's  lantern  led, 
Tells  how  the  drudging  goblin  sweat. 
To  eam  his  cream-bowl  du'y  set. 
When  in  one  night,  ere  glimpse  of  mora. 
His  shadowy  flail  hath  threshed  the  com, 
That  ten  day-laborers  could  not  end : 
Then  lies  him  down  the  lubber  fiend, 
And,  stretched  out  all  the  chimney's  length. 


64 


HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 


Basks  at  the  fire  his  hairy  strength ; 
And  crop-full  out  of  doors  he  flings, 
Ere  the  first  cock  his  matin  rings. 
Thus  done  the  tales,  to  bed  they  creep. 
By  whispering  winds  soon  lulled  asleep. 
Towered  cities  please  us  then, 
And  the  busy  hum  of  men, 
Where  throngs  of  knights  and  barons  bold. 
In  weeds  of  peace,  high  triumphs  hold, 
With  store  of  ladies,  whose  bright  eyes 
Ram  influence,  and  judge  the  prize 
Of  wit  or  arms,  while  both  contend 
To  win  her  grace,  whom  all  commend. 
There  let  Hymen  oft  appear 
In  saffron  robe,  with  taper  clear, 
And  pomp,  and  feast,  and  revelry, 
With  mask,  and  antique  pageantry ; 
Such  sights  as  youthful  poets  dream 
On  summer  eves  by  haunted  stream. 
Then  to  the  well-trod  stage  anon, 
If  Jonson's  learned  sock  be  on  ; 


Or  sweetest  Shakespeare,  Fancy's  child, 
Warble  his  native  wood-notes  wild. 

And  ever,  against  eating  cares, 
Lap  me  in  soft  Lydian  airs, 
Married  to  immortal  verse ; 
Such  as  the  meeting  soul  may  pierce, 
In  notes,  with  many  a  winding  bout 
Of  linked  sweetness  long  drawn  out, 
With  wanton  heed  and  giddy  cunning ; 
The  melting  voice   through  mazes  run- 
ning. 
Untwisting  all  the  chains  that  tie 
The  hidden  soul  of  harmony  ; 
That  Orpheus'  self  may  heave  his  head 
From  golden  slumber  on  a  bed 
Of  heaped  Elysian  flowers,  and  hear 
Such  strains,  as  would  have  won  the  ear 
Of  Pluto,  to  have  quite  set  free 
His  half-regained  Eurydice. 

These  delights  if  thou  canst  give, 
Mirth,  with  thee  I  mean  to  live. 


IL  PENSEROSO. 


Hence,  vain  deluding  Joys, 

The  brood  of  Folly,  without  father  bred  ! 

How  little  you  bestead, 

Or  fill  the  fixed  mind  with  all  your  toys  ! 
Dwell  in  some  idle  brain, 
And  fancies  fond  with  gaudy  shapes  possess, 
As  thick  and  numberless 

As  the  gay  motes  that  people  the  sun- 
beams. 
Or  likest  hovering  dreams. 

The  fickle  pensioners  of  Morpheus'  train. 
But  hail,  thou  goddess,  sage  and  holy. 
Hail,  divinest  Melancholy, 
Whose  sain'.ly  visage  is  too  bright 
To  hit  the  sense  of  human  sight. 
And  therefore  to  our  weaker  view 
O'erlaid  with  black,  staid  Wisdom's  hue. 

Come,  pensive  nun,  devout  and  pure. 
Sober,  steadfast,  and  demure, 
All  in  a  robe  of  darkest  grain. 
Flowing  with  majestic  train, 
And  sable  stole  of  cypress-lawn, 
Over  thy  decent  shoulders  drawn. 
Come,  but  keep  thy  wonted  state, 
With  even  step,  and  musing  gait, 
And  looks  commercing  with  tha  skies 
Thy  rapt  soul  sitting  in  thine  eyes  : 
There  held  in  holy  passion  still, 
Forget  thyself  to  marble,  till. 
With  a  sad  leaden  downward  cast, 


Thou  fix  them  on  the  earth  as  fast ; 

And  join  with  thee  calm  Peace,  and  Quiet, 

Spare  Fast,  that  oft  with  gods  doth  diet, 

And  hears  the  Muses  in  a  ring 

Aye  round  about  Jove's  altar  sing. 

And  add  to  these  retired  Leisure, 

That  in  trim  gardens  takes  his  pleasure : 

But  first  and  chiefest  with  thee  bring, 

Him  that  yon  soars  on  golden  wing. 

Guiding  the  fiery-wheeled  throne, 

The  cherub  Contemplation ; 

And  the  mute  Silence  hist  along, 

'Less  Philomel  will  deign  a  song. 

In  her  sweetest,  saddest  plight, 

Smoothing  the  rugged  brow  of  night, 

While  Cynthia  checks  her  dragon  yoke, 

Gently  o'er  the  accustomed  oak : 

Sweet  bird,  that  shunn'st  the  noise  of  folly. 

Most  musical,  most  melancholy  ! 

Thee,  chantress,  oft,  the  woods  among, 

I  woo,  to  hear  thy  even-spng ; 

And,  missing  thee,  I  walk  unseen 

On  the  dry  smooth-shaven  green. 

To  behold  the  wandering  moon 

Riding  near  her  highest  noon, 

Like  one  that  had  been  led  astray 

Through  the  heaven's  wide  pathless  way ; 

And  oft,  as  if  her  head  she  bowed. 

Stooping  through  a  fleecy  cloud. 

Oft,  on  a  plat  of  rising  ground, 

I  hear  the  far-off  curfew  sound, 


JOHN    MILTON. 


65 


Over  some  wide-watered  shore, 

Swinging  slow  with  sullen  roar : 

Or,  if  the  air  will  not  permit, 

Some  still  removed  place  will  fit, 

Where  glowing  embers  through  the  room 

Teach  light  to  counterfeit  a  gloom  ; 

Far  from  all  resort  of  mirth, 

Save  the  cricket  on  the  hearth. 

Or  the  bellman's  drowsy  charm, 

To  bless  the  doors  from  nightly  harm. 

Or  let  my  lamp,  at  midnight  hour, 

Be  seen  in  some  high  lonely  tower, 

Where  I  may  oft  outwatch  the  Bear, 

With  thrice-great  Hermes,  or  unsphere 

The  spirit  of  Plato,  to  unfold 

What  worlds  or  what  vast  regions  hold 

The  immortal  mind,  that  hath  forsook 

Her  mansion  in  this  fleshly  nook : 

And  of  those  demons  that  are  found 

In  fire,  air,  flood,  or  under  ground. 

Whose  power  hath  a  true  consent 

With  planet  or  with  element. 

Sometimes  let  gorgeous  Tragedy 

In  sceptred  pall  come  sweeping  by. 

Presenting  Thebes,  or  Pelops'  line. 

Or  the  tale  of  Troy  divine  ; 

Or  what,  though  rare,  of  later  age 

Ennobled  liath  the  buskined  stage. 

But,  O,  sad  Virgin,  that  thy  power 
Might  raise  Musaeus  from  his  bower  ! 
Or  bid  the  soul  of  Orpheus  sing 
Such  notes,  as,  warbled  to  the  string, 
Drew  iron  tears  down  Pluto's  cheel , 
And  made  Hell  grant  what  love  did  seek  ! 
Or  call  up  him  that  left  half-told 
The  story  of  Cambuscan  bold, 
Of  Camball  and  of  Algarsife, 
And  who  had  Canace  to  wife. 
That  owned  the  virtuous  ring  and  glass  ; 
And  of  the  wondrous  horse  of  brass, 
On  which  the  Tartar  king  did  ride  : 
And  if  aught  else  great  bards  beside 
In  sage  and  solemn  tunes  have  sung, 
Of  tourneys,  and  of  trophies  hung  ; 
Of  forests  and  enchantments  drear. 
Where  more  is  meant  than  meets  the  ear. 

Thus,  Night,  oft  see  me  in  thy  pale  career, 
Till  civil-suited  Mom  appear, 
Not  tricked  and  frounced  as  she  was  wont 
With  the  Attic  boy  to  hunt, 
But  kercheft  in  a  comely  cloud, 


While  rocking  winds  are  piping  loud. 

Or  ushered  with  a  shower  still. 

When  the  gust  hath  blown  his  fill. 

Ending  on  the  rustling  leaves, 

With  minute  drops  from  off  the  eaves. 

And,  when  the  sun  begins  to  fling 

His  flaring  beams,  me,  goddess,  bring 

To  arched  walks  of  twilight  groves, 

And  shadows  brown,  that  Sylvan  loves. 

Of  pine,  or  monumental  oak, 

Where  the  rude  axe,  with  heaved  stroke, 

Was  never  heard  the  nymphs  to  daunt, 

Or  fright  them  from  their  hallowed  haunt. 

There  in  close  covert  by  some  brook, 

Where  no  profaner  eye  may  look, 

Hide  me  from  day's  gairish  eye, 

Whi  e  the  bee  with  honeyed  thigh, 

That  at  her  flowery  work  dolh  sing, 

And  the  waters  murmuring, 

With  such  consort  as  they  keep. 

Entice  the  dewy-feathered  Sleep  ; 

And  let  some  strange  mysterious  Dream 

Wave  at  his  wings  in  aery  stream 

Of  lively  portraiture  displayed. 

Softly  on  my  ej-elids  laid  : 

And,  as  I  wake,  sweet  music  breathe 

Above,  about,  or  underneath. 

Sent  by  some  Spirit  to  Mortals  good. 

Or  the  unseen  Genius  of  the  wood. 

But  let  my  due  feet  never  fail 
To  walk  the  studious  cloisters  pale, 
And  love  the  high-embowed  roo^ 
With  antic  pillars  massy  proof. 
And  storied  windows  richly  dight. 
Casting  a  dim  religious  light : 
There  let  the  pealing  organ  blow, 
To  the  full-voiced  quire  below, 
In  service  high,  and  anthems  clear, 
As  may  with  sweetness,  through  mine  ear, 
Dissolve  me  into  ecstasies, 
And  bring  all  heaven  before  mine  eyes. 

And  may  at  last  my  weary  age 
Find  out  the  peaceful  hermitage. 
The  hairy  gown  and  mossy  cell. 
Where  I  may  sit  and  rightly  spell 
Of  every  star  that  heaven  doth  shew, 
And  every  herb  that  sips  the  dew ; 
Till  old  experience  do  attain 
To  something  like  prophetic  strain. 

These  pleasures.  Melancholy,  give, 
And  I  with  thee  will  choose  to  live. 


66  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

FROM    "  AREOPAGITICA." 

[The  Freedom  of  the  Press.] 

This  is  not  the  liberty  which  we  can  hope,  that  no  grievance  ever 
should  arise  in  the  comrnonwealth  :  that  let  no  man  in  this  world 
expect ;  but  when  complaints  are  freely  heard,  deeply  considered, 
and  speedily  reformed,  then  is  the  utmost  bound  of  civil  liberty 
obtained  that  wise  mea  look  for.     .     .     . 

I  deny  not  but  that  it  is  of  greatest  concernment,  in  the  church 
and  commonwealth,  to  have  a  vigilant  eye  how  books  demean  them- 
selves, as  well  as  men ;  and  thereafter  to  confine,  imprison,  and  do 
sharpest  justice  on  them  as  malefactors  ;  for  books  are  not  absolute- 
ly dead  things,  but  do  contain  a  progeny  of  life  in  them  to  be  as 
active  as  that  soul  was  whose  progeny  they  are ;  nay,  they  do 
preserve  as  in  a  vial  the  purest  efficacy  and  extraction  of  that  living 
intellect  that  bred  them.  I  know  they  are  as  lively,  and  as  vigorous- 
ly productive,  as  those  fabulous  dragons'  teeth  ;  and  being  sown  up 
and  down,  may  chance  to  spring  up  armed  men.  And  yet,  on  the 
other  hand,  unless  wariness  be  used,  as  good  almost  kill  a  man  as 
kill  a  good  book  :  who  kills  a  man  kills  a  reasonable  creature,  God's 
image  ;  but  he  who  destroys  a  good  book,  kills  reason  itself,  kills  the 
image  of  God,  as  it  were,  in  the  eye.  Many  a  man  lives  a  burden  to 
the  earth  ;  but  a  good  book  is  the  precious  life-blood  of  a  master- 
spirit, embalmed  and  treasured  up  on  purpose  to  a  life  beyond  life. 
It  is  true,  no  age  can  restore  a  life,  whereof,  perhaps,  there  is  no 
great  loss  ;  and  revolutions  of  ages  do  not  oft  recover  the  loss  of  a 
rejected  truth,  for  the  want  of  which  whole  nations  fare  the  worse. 
We  should  be  wary,  therefore,  what  persecution  we  raise  against  the 
living  labors  of  pubhc  men,  how  we  spill  that  seasoned  hfe  of  man, 
preserved  and  stored  up  in  books  ;  since  we  see  a  kind  of  homicide 
may  be  thus  committed,  sometimes  a  martyrdom  ;  and  if  it  extend  to 
the  whole  impression,  a  kind  of  massacre,  whereof  the  execution 
ends  not  in  the  slaying  of  an  elemental  life,  but  strikes  at  the  ethereal 
and  fifth  essence,  the  breath  of  reason  itself;  slays  an  immortality 
rather  than  a  life.     .     .     . 

Good  and  evil  we  know  in  the  field  of  this  world  grow  up  together 
almost  inseparably  ;  and  the  knowledge  of  good  is  so  involved  and 
interwoven  with  the  knowledge  of  evil,  and  in  so  many  cunning 
resemblances  hardly  to  be  discerned,  that  those  confused  seeds 
which  were  imposed  upon  Psyche  as  an  incessant  labor  to  cull  out, 
and  sort  asunder,  were  not  more  intermixed.     It  was  from  out  the 


JOHN   MILTON.  67 

rind  of  one  apple  tasted,  that  the  knowledge  of  good  and  evil,  as  two 
twins  cleaving  together,  leaped  forth  into  the  world.  And  perhaps 
this  is  that  doom  which  Adam  fell  into  of  knowing  good  and  evil ; 
that  is  to  say,  of  knowing  good  by  evil. 

As  therefore  the  state  of  man  now  is,  what  wisdom  can  there  be 
to  choose,  what  continence  to  forbear,  without  the  knowledge  of 
evil  ?  He  that  can  apprehend  and  consider  vice  with  all  her  baits 
and  seeming  pleasures,  and  yet  abstain,  and  yet  distinguish,  and 
yet  prefer  that  which  is  truly  better,  he  is  the  true  warfaring  Chris- 
tian. I  cannot  praise  a  fugitive  and  cloistered  virtue  unexercised 
and  unbreathed,  that  never  sallies  out  and  seeks  her  adversary,  but 
slinks  out  of  the  race,  where  that  immortal  garland  is  to  be  run  for 
not  without  dust  and  heat.  Assuredly  we  bring  not  innocence  into 
the  world,  we  bring  impurity  much  rather  ;  that  which  purifies  us  is 
trial,  and  trial  is  by  what  is  contrary.     .     .     . 

If  we  think  to  regulate  printing,  thereby  to  rectify  manners,  we 
must  regulate  all  recreations  and  pastimes,  all  that  is  delightful  to 
man.  No  music  must  be  heard,  no  song  be  set  or  sung,  but  what 
is  grave  and  Doric.  There  must  be  licensing  dancers,  that  no 
gesture,  motion,  or  deportment  be  taught  our  youth,  but  what  by 
their  allowance  shall  be  thought  honest ;  for  such  Plato  was  pro- 
vided of.  It  will  ask  more  than  the  work  of  twenty  licensers  to 
examine  all  the  lutes,  the  violins,  and  the  guitars  in  every  house  ; 
they  must  not  be  suffered  to  prattle  as  they  do,  but  must  be 
licensed  what  they  may  say.  And  who  shall  silence  all  the  airs 
and  madrigals  that  whisper  softness  in  chambers  ?  The  windows 
also,  and  the  balconies,  must  be  thought  on  ;  these  are  shrewd 
books,  with  dangerous  frontispieces,  set  to  sale :  who  shall  prohibit 
them,  shall  twenty  licensers  ?  The  villages  also  must  have  their  visit- 
ors to  inquire  what  lectures  the  bagpipe  and  the  rebec  reads,  even 
to  the  ballatry  and  the  gamut  of  every  municipal  fiddler :.  for  these 
are  the  countryman's  Arcadias,  and  his  Monte  Mayors.     .     .     . 

Suppose  we  could  expel  sin  by  this  means  ;  look  how  much  we 
thus  expel  of  sin,  so  much  we  expel  of  virtue  ;  for  the  matter  of  them 
both  is  the  same  :  remove  that,  and  ye  remove  them  both  alike. 
This  justifies  the  high  providence  of  God,  who,  though  he  commands 
us  temperance,  justice,  continence,  yet  pours  out  before  us  even  to  a 
profuseness  all  desirable  things,  and  gives  us  minds  that  can  wander 
beyond  all  limit  and  satiety.  Why  should  we  then  affect  a  rigor 
contrary  to  the  manner  of  God  and  of  nature,  by  abridging  or  scant- 
ing those  means,  which  books,  freely  permitted,  are,  both  to  the  trial 
of  virtue,  and  the  exercise  of  truth  ?     .     .     . 


68  HAND-BOOK   OF  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

Truth  indeed  came  once  into  the  world  with  her  Divine  Master, 
and  was  a  perfect  shape  most  glorious  to  look  on :  but  when  he 
ascended,  and  his  Apostles  after  him  were  laid  asleep,  then  straight 
arose  a  wicked  race  of  deceivers,  who,  as  that  story  goes  of  the 
Egyptian  Typhon  with  his  conspirators,  how  they  dealt  with  the 
god  Osiris,  took  the  virrnn  Truth,  hewed  her  lovely  form  into  a 
thousand  pieces,  and  scattered  them  to  the  four  winds.  From  that 
time  ever  since,  the  sad  friends  of  Truth,  such  as  durst  appear, 
imitating  the  careful  search  that  I  sis  made  for  the  mangled  body  of 
Osiris,  went  up  and  down  gathering  up  limb  by  limb  still  as  they 
could  find  them.  We  have  not  yet  found  them  all,  lords  and  com- 
mons>  nor  ever  shall  do,  till  her  Master's  second  coming ;  he  shall 
bring  together  every  joint  and  member,  and  shall  mould  them  into 
an  immortal  feature  of  loveliness  and  perfection.  Suffer  not  these 
licensing  prohibitions  to  stand  at  every  place  of  opportunity,  for- 
bidding and  disturbing  them  that  continue  seeking,  that  continue  to 
do  our  obsequies  to  the  torn  body  of  our  martyred  saint.     .     .     . 

Methinks  I  see  in  my  mind  a  noble  and  puissant  nation  rousing 
herself  like  a  strong  man  after  sleep,  and  shaking  her  invincible 
locks  :  methinks  I  see  her  as  an  eagle  mewing  her  mighty  youth, 
and  kindling  her  undazzled  eyes  at  the  full  midday  beam  ;  purging 
and  unsealing  her  long-abused  sight  at  the  fountain  itself  of  heaven- 
ly radiance  ;  while  the  whole  noise  of  timorous  and  flocking  birds, 
with  those  also  that  love  the  twilight,  flutter  about,  amazed  at  what 
she  means,  and  in  their  envious  gabble  would  prognosticate  a  year 
of  sects  and  schisms.     .     .     . 

The  temple  of  Janus,  with  his  two  controversial  faces,  might  now 
not  unsignificantly  be  set  open.  And  though  all  the  winds  of 
doctrine  were  let  loose  to  play  upon  the  earth,  so  truth  be  in  the 
field,  we  do  injuriously  by  hcensing  and  prohibiting  to  misdoubt 
her  strength.  Let  her  and  falsehood  grapple  ;  who  ever  knew  truth 
put  to  the  worse,  in  a  free  and  open  encounter  ?  her  confuting  is 
the  best  and  surest  suppressing.     .     .     . 

When  a  man  hath  been  laboring  the  hardest  labor  in  the  deep 
mines  of  knowledge,  hath  furnished  out  his  findings  in  all  their 
equipage,  drawn  forth  his  reasons  as  it  were  a  battle  ranged, 
scattered  and  defeated  all  objections  in  his  way,  calls  out  his  ad- 
versary into  the  plain,  offers  him  the  advantange  of  wind  and  sun,  if 
he  please,  only  that  he  may  try  the  matter  by  dint  of  argument ;  for 
his  opponents  then  to  skulk,  to  lay  ambushments,  to  keep  a  narrow 
bridge  of  licensing  where  the  challenger  should  pass,  though  it  be 


ANCIENT   BALLADS. 


69 


valor  enough  in  soldiership,  is  but  weakness  and  cowardice  in  the 
wars  of  truth.  For  who  knows  not  that  truth  is  strong,  next  to  the 
Almighty .''  She  needs  no  poHcies,  nor  stratagems,  nor  licensings  to 
make  her  victorious  ;  those  are  the  shifts  and  the  defences  that  error 
uses  against  her  power :  give  her  but  room,  and  do  not  bind  her 
when  she  sleeps,  for  then  she  speaks  not  true,  as  the  old  Proteus 
did,  who  spake  oracles  only  when  he  was  caught  and  bound,  but 
then  rather  she  turns  herself  into  .all  shapes  except  her  own,  and 
perhaps  tunes  her  voice  according  to  the  time,  as  Micaiah  did  before 
Ahab,  until  she  be  adjured  into  her  own  Hkeness. 


ANCIENT   BALLADS. 

The  ballads  which  have  come  down  to  us  from  a  remote  antiquity  contain  the  rough 
nuggets,  the  uncoined  gold,  of  English  poetry.  The  collection  in  eight  volumes  by  Professor 
Child  contains  a  great  variety,  and  presents  them  in  their  original  simplicity.  We  have 
room  for  two  specimens  only ;  and  in  deference  to  the  wishes  of  teachers,  have  felt  obliged 
to  print  the  first,  Chevy-Chace,  in  the  modernized  version :  the  older  form,  The  Hunting 
of  the  Cheviot,  being  thought  too  obscure  in  many  passages. 


CHEVY-CHACE. 


God  prosper  long  our  noble  king, 

Our  lives  and  safeties  all ; 
A  woful  hunting  once  there  did 

In  Chevy-Chace  befall. 

To  drive  the  deer  with  hound  and  horn 

Erie  Piercy  took  his  way  ; 
The  child  may  rue  that  is  unborn 

The  hunting  of  that  day. 

The  stout  Erie  of  Northumberland 

A  vow  to  God  did  make, 
His  pleasure  in  the  Scottish  woods 

Three  summer's  days  to  take, 

The  chiefest  harts  in  Chevy-Chace 

To  kill  and  bear  away  : 
The  tidings  to  Erie  Douglas  came, 

In  Scotland,  where  he  lay. 

Who  sent  Erie  Piercy  present  word. 
He  would  prevent  his  sport ; 

The  English  erle,  not  fearing  this, 
Did  to  the  woods  resort. 

With  fifteen  hundred  bow-men  bold. 

All  chosen  men  of  might, 
Who  knew  full  well  in  time  of  need 

To  aim  their  shafts  aright. 


The  gallant  greyhounds  swiftly  ran, 

To  chase  the  fallow-deer  ; 
On  Monday  they  began  to  hunt. 

When  daylight  did  appear. 

And  long  before  high  noon  they  had 
An  hundred  fat  bucks  slain  ; 

Then,  having  dined,  the  drovers  went 
To  rouse  them  up  again. 

The  bow-men  mustered  on  the  hills. 

Well  able  to  endure  ; 
Their  backsides  all,  with  special  care, 

That  day  were  guarded  sure. 

The  hounds  ran  swiftly  thro'  the  woods» 

The  nimble  deer  to  take. 
And  with  their  cries  the  hills  and  dales 

An  echo  shrill  did  make. 

Lorfl  Piercy  to  the  quarry  went. 

To  view  the  tender  deere  ; 
Quoth  he,  "  Erie  Douglas  promised 

This  day  to  meet  me  heer. 

"  If  that  I  thought  he  would  not  come, 

No  longer  would  I  stay." 
With  that,  a  brave  young  gentleman 

Thus  to  the  erle  did  say : 


70 


HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 


"Lo,  yonder  doth  Erie  Douglas  come, 
♦His  men  in  armour  bright ; 
Full  twenty  hundred  Scottish  spears, 
All  marching  in  our  sight. 

"All  men  of  pleasant  Tividale, 

Fast  by  the  river  Tweed." 
"Then  cease  your  sport,"  Erie  Piercy  said, 

"  And  take  your  bows  with  speed. 


Then  stept  a  gallant  squier  forth 
(Witherington  was  his  nameX 

Who  said,  "  I  would  not  have  it  told 
To  Henry  our  king  for  shame, 

"  That  e'er  my  captaine  fought  on  foot, 

And  I  stood  looking  on : 
You  be  two  erles, "  said  Witherington, 

"And  I  a  squier  alone. 


"  And  now  with  me,  my  countrymen. 

Your  courage  forth  advance  ; 
For  there  was  never  champion  yet 

In  Scotland  or  in  France, 

"That  ever  did  on  horseback  come, 

But,  if  my  hap  it  were, 
I  durst  encounter  man  for  man. 

With  him  to  break  a  spear." 

Erie  Douglas  on  his  miik-white  st^^d, 

Most  like  a  baron  bold, 
Rode  foremost  of  the  company, 

Whose  armour  shone  like  gold. 

"Show  me,"  he  said,   "whose  men  you  be. 

That  hunt  so  boldly  here, 
That,  without  my  consent,  do  chase 

And  kill  my  fallow-deer." 

The  man  that  first  did  answer  make 

Was  noble  Piercy  he  ; 
Who  said,  "We  list  not  to  declare, 

Nor  show  whose  men  we  be : 


"  I'll  do  the  best  that  do  I  may, 
While  I  have  power  to  stand  ; 

While  I  have  power  to  wield  my  sword, 
I'll  fight  with  heart  and  hand." 

Our  English  archers  bent  their  bows  ; 

Their  hearts  were  good  and  true  ; 
At  the  first  flight  of  arrows  sent. 

Full  threescore  Scots  they  slew. 

To  drive  the  deer  with  hound  and  horn. 
Earl  Douglas  had  the  bent  ; 

A  captaine  moved  with  mickle  pride 
The  spears  to  shivers  sent. 

They  clos'd  full  fast  on  every  side ; 

No  slackness  there  was  found  ; 
And  many  a  gallant  gentleman 

Lay  gasping  on  the  ground. 

O  Christ  !  it  was  a  grief  to  see, 

And  likewise  for  to  hear, 
The  cries  of  men  lying  in  their  gore, 

And  scattered  here  and  there. 


"Yet  we  will  spend  our  dearest  blood 
Thy  chiefest  hart  to  slay." 

Then  Douglas  swore  a  solemn  oatli. 
And  thus  in  rage  did  say : 


At  last  these  two  stout  erles  did  meet, 
Like  captains  of  great  might : 

Like  lions  moved  they  laid  on  load, 
And  made  a  cruel  fight. 


"  Ere  thus  I  will  out-braved  be. 

One  of  us  two  shall  dye : 
I  know  thee  well,  an  erle  thou  art ; 

Lord  Piercy,  so  am  I. 

"  But  trust  me,  Piercy,  pity  it  were, 
And  great  oflFence,  to  kill 

Any  of  these  our  harmless  men, 
For  they  have  done  no  ill. 


They  fought  until  they  both  did  sweat. 
With  swords  of  tempered  steel ; 

Until  the  blood,  like  drops  of  rain. 
They  trickling  down  did  feel. 

"Yield  thee.  Lord  Piercy,"  Douglas  said; 

"In  faith  I  will  thee  bring 
Where  thou  shalt  high  advanced  be 

By  James,  our  Scottish  king. 


Let  thou  and  I  the  battle  try. 
And  set  our  men  aside." 
'Accursed  be  he,"  Lord  Piercy  said, 
"  By  whom  this  is  denyed." 


"Thy  ransom  I  will  freely  give. 

And  thus  report  of  thee, 
Thou  art  the  most  courageous  knight 

That  ever  I  did  see." 


ANCIENT    BALLADS. 


'  No,  Douglas,"  quoth  Erie  Piercy  then, 
"Thy  proffer  I  do  scorn  ; 
will  not  yield  to  any  Scot 
That  ever  yet  was  born." 


Against  Sir  Hugh  Montgomery 

So  right  his  shaft  he  set, 
The  gray  goose-wing  that  was  thereon 

In  his  heart's  blood  was  wet. 


With  that,  there  came  an  arrow  keen 

Out  of  an  English  bow, 
Which  struck  Erie  Douglas  to  the  heart, 

A  deep  and  deadly  blow ; 


This  fight  did  last  fi-om  break  of  day 

Till  setting  of  the  sun  ; 
For  when  they  rung  the  evening  bell, 

The  battle  scarce  was  done. 


Who  never  spoke  more  words  than  these ! 

'*  Fight  on,  my  merry  men  all  ; 
For  why,  my  life  is  at  an  end  ; 

Lord  Piercy  sees  my  fall." 


With  the  Erie  Piercy  there  was  slain 

Sir  John  of  Ogerton, 
Sir  Robert  Ratcliff,  and  Sir  John, 

Sir  James,  that  bold  baron. 


Then,  leaving  life,  Erie  Piercy  took 
The  dead  man  by  the  hand. 

And  said,  *'  Er'e  Douglas,  for  thy  life 
Would  I  had  lost  my  land  ! 


And  with  Sir  George  and  good  Sir  James, 
Both  knights  of  good  account. 

Good  Sir  Ralph  Rabby  there  was  slain. 
Whose  prowess  did  surmount. 


"  O  Christ !  my  very  heart  doth  bleed 

With  sorrow  for  thy  sake  ; 
For  sure,  a  more  renowned  knight 

Mischance  did  never  take." 


For  Witharington  needs  must  I  wail, 

As  one  in  doleful  dumps  ; 
For,  when  his  legs  were  smitten  off. 

He  fought  upon  his  stumps. 


A  knight  amongst  the  Scots  there  was, 
Which  saw  Erie  Douglas  dye, 

Who  straight  in  wratli  did  vow  revenge 
Upon  the  Erie  Piercy. 


And  with  Erie  Douglas  there  was  slain 

Sir  Hugh  Montgomery, 
Sir  Charles  Currel,  that  from  the  field 

One  foot  would  never  fly. 


Sir  Hugh  Montgomery  was  he  called, 
Who,  with  a  spear  most  bright, 

Well-mounted  on  a  gallant  steed. 
Ran  fiercely  through  the  fight. 


Sir  Charles  Murrel,  of  Ratcliff,  too, 

His  sister's  son  was  he  ; 
Sir  David  Lamb,  so  well  esteemed. 

Yet  saved  could  not  bee. 


And  passed  the  English  archers  all. 

Without  all  dread  or  fear, 
And  through  Erie  Piercy's  body  then 

He  thrust  his  hateful  spear. 


And  the  Lord  Maxwell  in  likewise 
Did  with  Erie  Douglas  dye  ; 

Of  twenty  hundred  Scottish  spears 
Scarce  fifty-five  did  fly. 


With  such  a  veh'ment  force  and  might 

He  did  his  body  gore, 
The  spear  ran  through  the  other  side 

A  large  cloth-yard,  and  more. 


Of  fifteen  hundred  Englishmen, 
Went  home  but  fifty-three  ; 

The  rest  were  slain  in  Chevy-Chace, 
Under  the  green-wood  tree. 


So  thus  did  both  these  nobles  dye. 
Whose  courage  none  could  stain  ; 

An  English  archer  then  perceived 
The  noble  erle  was  slain. 


Next  day  did  many  widows  come, 

Their  husbands  to  bewail ; 
They  washed  their  wounds  in  brinish  tears. 

But  all  would  not  prevail. 


He  had  a  bow  bent  in  his  hand. 
Made  of  a  trusty  tree  ; 

An  arrow  of  a  cloth-yard  long 
Up  to  the  head  drew  hs. 


Their  bodies,  bathed  in  purple  blood, 

They  bore  with  them  away : 
They  kissed  them  dead  a  thousand  times, 

When  they  were  clad  in  clay. 


72 


HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 


This  news  was  brought  to  Edinburgh, 
Where  Scotland's  king  did  reign, 

'Ihat  brave  Erie  Douglas  suddenly 
Was  with  an  arrow  slain. 

"O,  heavy  news,"  King  James  did  say; 

"Scotland  can  witness  be, 
I  have  not  any  captain  more 

Of  such  account  as  he. " 

Like  tidings  to  King  Henry  came, 

Within  as  short  a  space. 
That  Piercy  of  Northumberland 

Was  slaine  in  Chevy-Chace. 

"  Now,  God  be  with  him, "  said  our  king, 

"  Sith  'twill  no  better  be  ; 
I  trust  I  have  within  my  realm 

Five  hundred  as  good  as  he. 


"  Vet  shall  not  Scot  nor  Scotland  say, 

But  I  will  vengeance  take, 
And  be  revenged  on  them  all. 

For  brave  Erie  Piercy's  sake."" 

This  vow  full  well  the  king  performed. 

After,  on  Humbledown  : 
In  one  day  fifty  knights  were  slain, 

With  lords  of  great  renown. 

And  of  the  rest,  of  small  account, 

Did  many  thousands  dye : 
Thus  endeth  the  hunting  of  Chevy-Chace, 

Made  by  the  Erie  Piercy. 

God  save  the  king,  and  bless  the  land 

In  plenty,  joy,  and  peace  ; 
And  grant  henceforth  that  foul  debate 

'Twixt  noblemen  may  cease  I 


THE   KING   AND   MILLER   OF   MANSFIELD. 

PART   THE    FIRST. 

Henry,  our  royall  king,  would  ride  a  hunting 
To  the  greene  forest  so  pleasant  and  faire  ; 
To  see  the  harts  skipping,  and  dainty  does  tripping, 
Unto  merry  Sherwood  his  nobles  repaire  : 
Hawke  and  hound  were  unbound,  all  things  prepared 
For  the  game,  in  the  same,  with  good  regard. 

All  a  long  summer's  day  rode  the  king  pleasantlye, 

With  all  his  princes  and  nobles  eche  one. 
Chasing  the  hart  and  hind,  and  the  bucke  gallantlye, 

Till  the  dark  evening  forced  all  to  turne  home. 
Then  at  last,  riding  fast,  he  had  lost  quite 
All  his  lords  in  the  wood,  late  in  the  night. 

Wandering  thus  wearilye,  all  alone  up  and  downe, 

With  a  rude  miller  he  mett  at  the  last ; 
Asking  the  ready  way  unto  faire  Nottingham, 

"  Sir,"  quoth  the  miller,  "  I  meane  not  to  jest ; 
Yet  I  thinke  what  I  thinke,  sooth  for  to  say ; 
You  doe  not  lightlye  ride  out  of  your  way." 

"  Wliy,  what  dost  thou  think  of  me,"  quoth  our  king  merrily, 
"  Passing  thy  judgment  upon  me  so  briefe  ?  " 

"  Good  faith,"  sayd  the  miller,  "  I  mean  not  to  flatter  thee  ; 
I  guess  thee  to  bee  but  some  gentleman  thiefe  ; 


ANCIENT   BALLADS.  ,  "J^ 

Stand  thee  backe,  in  the  darke  ;  light  not  adowne, 
Lest  that  I  presentlye  crack  thy  knave's  crowne." 

"  Thou  dost  abuse  me  much,"  quoth  the  king,  "saying  thus  ; 

I  am  a  gentleman  ;  lodging  I  lacke." 
"  Thou  hast  not,"  quoth  the  miller,  "  one  groat  in  thy  purse  ; 

All  thy  inheritance  hanges  on  thy  backe." 
"  I  have  gold  to  discharge  all  that  I  call ; 
If  it  be  forty  pence,  I  will  pay  all." 

"  If  thou  beest  a  trtie  man,"  then  quoth  the  miller, 
"  I  sweare  by  my  toll-dish,  I'll  lodge  thee  all  night." 

"  Here's  my  hand,"  quoth  the  king  :  "  that  was  I  ever." 
"  Nay,  soft,"  quoth  the  miller,  "  thou  may'st  be  a  sprite. 

Better  I'll  know  thee,  ere  hands  we  will  shake  ; 

With  none  but  honest  men  hands  will  I  take." 

Thus  they  went  all  along  unto  the  miller's  house, 
Where  they  were  seething  of  puddings  and  souse  ; 

The  miller  first  entered  in,  after  him  went  the  king ; 
Never  came  hee  in  soe  smoakye  a  house. 

"  Now,"  quoth  hee,  "  let  me  see  here  what  you  are." 

Quoth  the  king,  "  Looke  your  fill,  and  doe  not  spare." 

"  I  hke  well  thy  countenance  ;  thou  hast  an  honest  face  : 
With  my  son  Richard  this  night  thou  shalt  lye." 

Quoth  his  wife,  "  By  my  troth,  it  is  a  handsome  youth, 
Yet  it's  best^  husband,  to  deal  warilye. 

Art  thou  no  runaway,  prythee,  youth,  tell  1 

Shew  me  thy  passport,  and  all  shal  be  well." 

Then  our  king,  presentlye,  making  lowe  courtesye, 

With  his  hatt  in  his  hand,  thus  he  did  say : 
"  I  have  no  passport,  nor  never  was  servitor, 

But  a  poor  courtyer,  rode  out  of  my  way  : 
And  for  your  kindness  here  offered  to  mee, 
I  will  requite  you  in  everye  degree." 

Then  to  the  miller  his  wife  whispered  secretlye, 
Saying,  "It  seemeth,  this  youth's  of  good  kin, 

Both  by  his  apparel,^and  eke  by  his  manners  ; 
To  turn  him  out,  certainlye  were  a  great  sin." 


74  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

"  Yea,"  quoth  hee,  "you  may  see  he  hath  some  grace, 
When  he  doth  speake  to  his  betters  in  place." 

"Well,"  quo'  the  millers  wife,  "young  man,  ye're  welcome  here 

And,  though  I  say  it,  well  lodged  shall  be : 
Fresh  straw  will  I  have  laid  on  thy  bed  so  brave. 

And  good  brown  hempen  sheets  likewise,"  quoth  shee. 
"  Aye,"  quoth  the  good  man,  "  and  when  that  is  done. 
Thou  shalt  lye  with  no  worse  than  our  own  sonne." 

This  caused  the  king  suddenlye  to  laugK  most  heartilye, 
Till  the  teares  trickled  fast  downe  from  his  eyes. 

Then  to  their  supper  were  they  set  orderlye. 
With  hot  bag-puddings,  and  good  apple-pyes  ; 

Nappy  ale,  good  and  stale,  in  a  browne  bowle, 

Which  did  about  the  board  merrilye  trowle. 

"Here,"  quoth  the  miller,  "good  fellowe,  I  drink  to  thee. 

And  to  all  courtnalls  that  courteous  be." 
"  I  pledge  thee,"  quoth  our  king,  "and  thanke  thee  heartlye 

For  my  good  welcome  in  everye  degree  : 
And  here,  in  like  manner,  I  drinke  to  thy  sonne." 
"Do  then,"  quoth  Richard,  "and  quicke  let  it  come." 

"  Wife,"  quoth  the  miller,  "  fetch  me  forth  light-foote, 

And  of  his  sweetnesse  a  little  we'll  taste." 
A  fair  ven'son  pastye  brought  she  out  presentlye, 

"  Eate,"  quoth  the  miller,  "  but,  sir,  make  nf»  waste. 
Here's  dainty  light-foote  !  "  "  In  faith,"  sayd  the  king 
"  I  never  before  eat  so  daintye  a  thing." 


t>j 


"  I-wis,"  quoth  Richard,  "  no  daintye  at  all  it  is. 

For  we  doe  eate  of  it  everye  day." 
"  In  what  place,"  sayd  our  king,  "may  be  bought  like  to  this  ?  " 

"  We  never  pay  pennye  for  itt,  by  my  fay  ; 
From  merry  Sherwood  we  fetch  it  home  here  ; 
Now  and  then  we  make  bold  with  our  kings  deer." 

"  Then  I  thinke,"  sayd  our  king,  "  that  it  is  venison." 
"  Eche  foole,"  quoth  Richard,  "  full  well  may  know  that : 

Never  are  wee  without  two  or  three  in  the  roof, 
Very  well  fleshed,  and  excellent  fat : 


ANCIENT   BALLADS. 


But,  prythee,  say  nothing  wherever  thou  goe  ; 

We  would  not,  for  two  pence,  the  king  should  it  knowe." 

"  Doubt  not,"  then  sayd  the  king,  "  my  promist  secresye  ; 

The  king  shall  never  know  more  on't  for  mee." 
A  cupp  of  lambs-wool  they  dranke  unto  him  then, 

And  to  their  bedds  they  past  presentlie. 
The  nobles,  next  morning,  went  all  up  and  down, 
For  to  seeke  out  the  king  in  everye  towne. 

At  last,  at  the  millers  cott,  soone  they  espy'd  him  out, 
As  he  was  mounting  upon  his  faire  steede  ; 

To  whom  they  came  presently,  falling  down  on  their  knee  ; 
Which  made  the  millers  heart  wofully  bleede,; 

Shaking  and  quaking,  before  him  he  stood, 

Thinking  he  should  have  been  hanged,  by  the  rood. 

The  king,  perceiving  him  fearfully  trembling, 
Drew  forth  his  sword,  but  nothing  he  sed : 

The  miller  then  downe  did  fall,  crying  before  them  all, 
Doubting  the  king  would  have  cut  off  his  head. 

But  he  is  kind  courtesye  for  to  requite, 

Gave  him  great  living,  and  dubbed  him  a  knight. 


PART    THE   SECONDE. 


Wlien  as  our  royall  king  came  home  from  Nottingham, 

And  with  his  nobles  at  Westminster  lay. 
Recounting  the  sports  and  pastimes  they  had  taken. 

In  this  late  progress  along  on  the  way, 
Of  them  all,  great  and  small,  he  did  protest. 
The  miller  of  Mansfield's  sport  liked  him  best. 

"  And  now,  my  lords,"  quoth  the  king,  "  I  am  determined 
Against  St.  Georges  next  sumptuous  feast. 

That  this  old  miller,  our  new  confirmed  knight, 
With  his  son  Richard,  shall  here  be  my  guest : 

For,  in  this  merryment,  'tis  my  desire 

To  talke  with  the  jolly  knight,  and  the  young  squire." 

When  as  the  noble  lords  saw  the  kinges  pleasantness. 
They  were  right  joyfull  and  glad  in  their  hearts  : 

A  pursuivant  there  was  sent  straighte  on  the  business, 
The  which  had  often-times  been  in  those  parts. 


id  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

When  he  came  to  the  place  where  they  did  dwell, 
His  message  orderlye  then  gan  he  tell. 

"  God  save  your  worshipe,"  then  said  the  messenger, 
"  And  grant  your  ladye  her  own  hearts  desire  ; 

And  to  your  sonne  Richard  good  fortune  and  happiness, 
That  sweet,  gentle,  and  gallant  young  squire. 

Our  king  greets  you  well,  and  thus  doth  he  say, 

You  must  come  to  the  court  on  St.  George's  day. 

"  Therefore,  in  any  case,  faile  not  to  be  in  place." 
"I-wis,"  quoth  the  miller,  "this  is  an  odd  jest : 

What  should  we  doe  there  ?  faith,  I  am  halfe  afraid." 
"  I  doubt,"  quoth  Richard,  "  to  be  hanged  at  the  least." 

"  Nay,"  quoth  the  messenger,  "  you  doe  mistake  ; 

Our  king  he  provides  a  great  feast  for  your  sake." 

Then  sayd  the  miller,  "  By  my  troth,  messenger, 

Thou  hast  contented  my  worshippe  full  well : 
Hold,  here  are  three  farthings  to  'quite  thy  gentleness, 

For  these  happy  tydings  which  thou  dost  tell. 
Let  me  see,  hear  thou  mee  ;  tell  to  our  king. 
We'll  wayt  on  his  mastershipp  in  everye  thing." 

The  pursuivant  smiled  at  their  simpHcitye, 

And  making  many  leggs,  tooke  their  reward. 
And  his  leave  taking  with  great  humilitye, 

To  the  kings  court  againe  he  repaired  ; 
Shewing  unto  his  grace,  merry  and  free, 
The  knightes  most  liberall  gift  and  bountie. 

When  he  was  gone  away,  thus  gan  the  miller  say : 

"  Here  come  expences  and  charges  indeed  ; 
Now  must  we  needs  be  brave,  tho'  we  spend  all  we  have, 

For  of  new  garments  we  have  great  need. 
Of  horses  and  serving-men  we  must  have  store, 
With  bridles  and  saddles,  and  twentye  things  more." 

"  Tushe,  Sir  John,"  quoth  his  wife,  "why  should  you  frett  or  frownei 

You  shall  ne'er  be  att  no  charges  for  mee  ; 
For  I  will  turne  and  trim  up  my  old  russet  gown. 

With  everye  thing  else  as  fine  as  may  bee  ; 


ANCIENT   BALLADS.  'J'J 

And  on  our  mill-horses  swift  will  we  ride, 

With  pillowes  and  pannells,  as  we  shall  provide." 

In  this  most  statelye  sort,  rode  they  unto  the  court ; 

Their  jolly  sonne  Richard  rode  foremost  of  all. 
Who  set  up,  for  good  hap,  a  cocks  feather  in  his  cap, 

And  so  they  jotted  downe  to  the  kings  hall ; 
The  merry  old  miller  with  hands  on  his  side  ; 
His  wife  like  maid  Marian  did  mince  at  that  tide. 

The  king  and  his  nobles,  that  heard  of  their  coming. 
Meeting  this  gallant  knight  with  his  brave  traine, 

"  Welcome,  sir  knight,"  quoth  he,  "with  your  gay  lady ; 
Good  Sir  John  Cockle,  once  welcome  againe  ; 

And  so  is  the  squire  of  courage  soe  free." 

Quoth  Dicke,  "  A  bots  on  you  !  do  you  know  mee  '^.  " 

The  king  and  the  courtiers  laugh  at  this  heartily. 
While  the  king  taketh  them  both  by  the  hand  ; 

With  the  court  dames  and  maids,  like  to  the  queen  of  spades, 
The  millers  wife  did  soe  orderly  stand, 

A  milk-maids  courtesye  at  every  word  ; 

And  downe  all  the  folkes  were  set  to  the  board. 

There  the  king  royally,  in  princelye  majestye. 

Sate  at  his  dinner  with  joy  and  delight ; 
When  they  had  eaten  well,  then  he  to  jesting  fell, 

And  in  a  bowle  of  wine  dranke  to  the  knight : 
"  Here's  to  you  both,  in  wine,  ale,  and  beer ; 
Thanking  you  heartilye  for  my  good  cheer." 

Quoth  Sir  John  Cockle,  "  I'll  pledge  you  a  pottle, 

Were  it  the  best  ale  in  Nottinghamshire." 
But  then  said  our  king,  "  Now  I  think  of  a  thing ; 

Some  of  your  light-foote  I  would  we  had  here." 
"  Ho  !  ho  !  "  quoth  Richard,  "  full  well  I  may  say  it, 
'Tis  knavery  to  eate  it,  and  then  to  betray  it." 

"  Why  art  thou  angry  ?  "  quoth  our  king  merrilye  ; 

"In  faith,  I  take  it  now  very  unkind  ; 
I  thought  thou  wouldst  pledge  me  in  ale  and  wine  heartily." 

Quoth  Dicke,  "  You  are  like  to  stay  till  I  have  dined : 


HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

You  feed  us  with  twatling  dishes  soe  small ; 
Zounds,  a  blacke-pudding  is  better  than  all." 

Thus  in  great  merriment  was  the  time  wholly  spent, 
And  then  the  ladyes  prepared  to  dance : 

Old  Sir  John  Cockle,  and  Richard  incontinent 
Unto  their  places  the  king  did  advance. 

Here  with  the  ladyes  such  sport  they  did  make. 

The  nobles  with  laughing  did  make  their  sides  ake. 

Then  Sir  John  Cockle  the  king  called  unto  him. 
And  of  merry  Sherwood  made  him  o'erseer. 

And  gave  him  out  of  hand  three  hundred  pound  yearlye 
"  Take  heed  now  you  Steele  no  more  of  my  deer ; 

And  once  a  quarter  let's  here  have  your  view  ; 

And  now,  Sir  John  Cockle,  I  bid  you  adieu." 


THOMAS   FULLER. 
— 

Dr.  Thomas  Fuller  was  bom  in  1608,  was  educated  at  Cambridge,  and  by  his  extraor- 
dinary talents  attained  to  great  eminence  as  a  preacher  and  author.  His  memory  was 
prodigious ;  he  was  familiar  with  local  traditions,  and  fond  of  gathering  quaint  anecdotes 
and  homely  traits  of  character.  His  wit  was  exhaustless,  sometimes  leading  him  into  un- 
worthy conceits,  but  lending  a  constant  charm  to  his  vigorous  sentences.  Of  his  works  the 
best  known  is  The  Worthies  of  England,  a  magazine  of  useful,  curious  and  trivial  matters. 
He  espoused  the  cause  of  the  king  during  the  civil  war,  but  returned  at  the  close  to  his 
clerical  duties  in  London.     He  died  in  1661. 

THE   GOOD   SCHOOLMASTER. 

There  is  scarce  any  profession  in  the  commonwealth  more  neces- 
sary, which  is  so  slightly  performed.  The  reasons  whereof  I  con- 
ceive to  be  these  :  First,  young  scholars  make  this  calling  their 
refuge  ;  yea,  perchance,  before  they  have  taken  any  degree  in  the 
university,  commence  schoolmasters  in  the  country,  as  if  nothing 
else  were  required  to  set  up  this  profession  but  only  a  rod  and  a 
ferula.  Secondly,  others  who  are  able,  use  it  only  as  a  passage  to 
better  preferment,  to  patch  the  rents  in  their  present  fortune,  till 
they  can  provide  a  new  one,  and  betake  themselves  to  some  more 
gainful  calling.  Thirdly,  they  are  disheartened  from  doing  their 
best  with  the  miserable  reward  which  in  some  places  they  receive, 
being  masters  to  their  children  and  slaves  to  their  parents.    Fourth- 


THOMAS   FULLER.  79 

ly,  being  grown  rich,  they  grow  neghgent,  and  scorn  to  touch  the 
school  but  by  the  proxy  of  the  usher.  But  see  how  well  our  school- 
master behaves  himself. 

His  genius  inclines  him  with  delight  to  his  profession.  Some 
men  had  as  well  be  schoolboys  as  schoolmasters,  to  be  tied  to  the 
school,  as  Cooper's  Dictionary  and  Scapula's  Lexicon  are  chained  to 
the  desk  therein  ;  and  though  great  scholars,  and  skilful  in  other 
arts,  are  bunglers  in  this.  But  God,  of  his  goodness,  hath  fitted 
several  men  for  several  caUings,  that  the  necessity  of  church  and 
state,  in  all  conditions,  may  be  provided  for.  So  that  he  who  beholds 
the  fabric  thereof  may  say,  God  hewed  out  the  stone,  and  appointed 
it  to  He  in  this  very  place,  for  it  would  fit  none  other  so  well,  and 
here  it  doth  most  excellent.  And  thus  God  mouldeth  some  for  a 
schoolmaster's  life,  undertaking  it  with  desire  and  delight,  and  dis- 
charging it  with  dexterity  and  happy  success. 

He  studieth  his  scholars'  natures  as  carefully  as  they  their  books  ; 
and  ranks  their  dispositions  into  several  forms.  And  though  it  may 
seem  difficult  for  him  in  a  great  school  to  descend  to  all  particulars, 
yet  experienced  schoolmasters  may  quickly  make  a  grammar  of  boys' 
natures,  and  reduce  them  all  —  saving  some  few  exceptions  —  to 
these  general  rules  :  — 

1.  Those  that  are  ingenious  and  industrious.  The  conjunction  of 
two  such  planets  in  a  youth  presage  much  good  unto  him.  To  such 
a  lad  a  frown  may  be  a  whipping,  and  a  whipping  a  death  ;  yea,  where 
their  master  whips  them  once,  shame  whips  them  all  the  week  after. 
Such  natures  he  useth  with  all  gentleness. 

2.  Those  that  are  ingenious  and  idle.  These  think  with  the  hare 
in  the  fable,  that  running  with  snails — so  they  count  the  rest  of 
their  schoolfellows  —  they  shall  come  soon  enough  to  the  post, 
though  sleeping  a  good  while  before  their  starting.  O,  a  good  rod 
would  finely  take  them  napping. 

3.  Those  that  are  dull  and  dihgent.  Wines,  the  stronger  they 
be,  the  more  lees  they  have  when  they  are  new.  Many  boys  are 
muddy-headed  till  they  be  clarified  with  age,  and  such  afterwards 
prove  the  best.  Bristol  diamonds  are  both  bright,  and  squared,  and 
pointed  by  nature,  and  yet  are  soft  and  worthless  ;  whereas  orient 
ones  in  India  are  rough  and  rugged  naturally.  Hard,  rugged,  and 
dull  natures  of  youth,  acquit  themselves  afterwards  the  jewels  of  the 
country,  and  therefore  their  diilness  at  first  is  to  be  borne  with,  if 
they  be  diligent.  That  schoolmaster  deserves  to  be  beaten  himself 
who  beats  nature  in  a  boy  for  a  fault.     And  I  question  whether  all 


RO  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

<rhe  whipping  in  the  world  can  make  their  parts  which  are  naturally 
sluggish  rise  one  minute  before  the  hour  nature  hath  appointed. 

4.  Those  that  are  invincibly  dull,  and  negligent  also.  Correction 
may  reform  the  latter,  not  amend  the  former.  ^11  the  whetting  in 
the  world  can  never  set  a  razor's  edge  on  that  which  hath  no  steel 
in  it.  Such  boys  he  consigneth  over  to  other  professions.  Ship- 
wrights and  boat-makers  will  choose  those  crooked  pieces  of  timber 
v/hich  other  carpenters  refuse.  Those  may  make  excellent  mer- 
chants and  mechanics  which  will  not  serve  for  scholars. 

He  is  able,  diligent,  and  methodical  in  his  teaching ;  not  leading 
them  rather  in  a  circle  than  forwards.  He  minces  his  precepts  for 
children  to  swallow,  hanging  clogs  on  the  nimbleness  of  his  own 
soul,  that  his  scholars  may  go  along  with  him. 

He  is  and  will  be  known  to  be  an  absolute  monarch  in  his  school. 
If  cockering  mothers  proffer  him  money  to  purchase  their  sons' 
exemption  from  his  rod  —  to  live,  as  it  were,  in  a  pecuhar,  out  of 
their  master's  jurisdiction  —  with  disdain  he  refuseth  it,  and  scorns 
the  late  custom  in  some  places  of  commuting  whipping  into  money, 
and  ransoming  boys  from  the  rod  at  a  set  price.  If  he  hath  a  stub- 
born youth,  correction-proof,  he  debaseth  not  his  authority  by  con- 
testing with  him,  but  fairly,  if  he  can,  puts  him  away  before  his 
obstinacy  hath  infected  others. 

He  is  moderate  in  inflicting  deserved  correction.  Many  a  school- 
master better  answereth  the  name  paidotribes '  than  paidagogos,^ 
rather  tearing  his  scholar's  flesh  with  whipping  than  giving  them 
good  education.  No  wonder  if  his  scholars  hate  the  Muses,  being 
presented  unto  them  in  the  shapes  of  fiends  and  furies. 

Such  an  Orbilius  mars  more  scholars  than  he  makes.  Their 
tyranny  hath  caused  many  tongue?  to  stammer  which  spake  plain  by 
nature,  and  whose  stuttering*  at  first  was  nothing  else  but  fears 
quavering  on  their  speech  at  their  master's  presence  ;  and  whose 
mauling  them  about  their  heads  hath  dulled  those  who  in  quickness 
exceeded  their  master. 

*  Boy-bnriser.  2  An  instructor ;  literally,  a  boy's  guide. 


SAMUEL  liUTLER.  8 1 


SAMUEL   BUTLER. 

Samuel  Butler  was  bom  in  1612.  It  is  doubtful  whether  he  ever  received  any  higher 
education  than  that  of  the  grammar  school  in  Worcester,  near  his  birthplace.  He  lived  for 
some  time  in  the  family  of  Sir  Samuel  Luke,  one  of  Cromwell's  officers,  and  being  a  person 
of  lively  disposition,  took  an  extreme  dislike  to  the  sad  manners  and  severe  discipline  of  the 
household.  In  1663  he  published  the  first  part  of  H  idibras,  in  which  the  austerities  of  the 
Puritan  leaders  are  ridiculed  with  a  brilliant  and  merciless  wit.  Two  other  parts  appeared 
subsequently,  but  the  poem  was  never  finished.  One  would  think  that  a  work  which  turned 
the  whole  current  of  popular  feeling  in  favor  of  the  restored  monarch  would  have  met  with  a 
reward,  but  Butler  is  only  one  of  the  many  servants  of  the  selfish  profligate  left  to  languish  in 
poverty.  He  died  in  1680.  His  remains  were  followed  to  the  grave  by  a  few  persons  only, 
and  the  funeral  expenses  were  paid  by  a  friend.  The  lapse  of  time  has  somewhat  dulled  the 
edge  of  Butler's  satire,  but  many  of  his  ctmplets  are  embedded  in  our  speech  as  in  mosaic  ; 
and  certainly,  until  the  publication  of  The  Biglow  Papers  in  our  own  day,  no  burlesque 
poem  has  appeared  at  all  comparable  to  Hudibras. 

HUDIBRAS. 


When  civil  dudgeon  first  grew  high, 
And  men  fell  out  they  knew  not  why ; 
When  hard  words,  jealousies,  and  fears, 
Set  folks  together  by  the  ears, 
And  made  them  fight,  like  mad  or  drunk. 
For  dame  Religion,  as  for  punk  ; 
Whose  honesty  they  all  durst  swear  for. 
Though  not  a  man  of  them  knew  wherefore 
When  Gospel-trumpeter,  surrounded 
With  long-eared  rout,  to  battle  sounded ; 
And  pulpit,  drum  ecclesiastic, 
Was  beat  with  fist  instead  of  a  stick ; 
Then  did  Sir  Knight  abandon  dwelling. 
And  out  he  rode  a  colonelling. 

We  grant,  although  he  had  much  wit, 
He  was  very  shy  of  using  it, 
As  being  loath  to  wear  it  out. 
And  therefore  bore  it  not  about* 
Unless  on  holy-days,  or  so. 
As  men  their  best  apparel  do. 
Beside  'tis  known  he  could  speak  Greek 
As  naturally  as  pigs  squeak  ; 
6 


HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

That  Latin  was  no  more  difficile, 
Than  to  a  blackbird  'tis  to  >^'histle  : 
Being  rich  in  both,  he  never  scanted 
His  bounty  unto  such  as  wanted  ; 
But  much  of  either  would  afford 
To  many  that  had  not  one  word. 

He  was  in  logic  a  great  critic, 
Profoundly  skilled  in  analytic  ; 
He  could  distinguish,  and  divide 
A  hair  'twixt  south  and  south-west  side ; 
On  either  which  he  would  dispute. 
Confute,  change  hands,  and  still  confute : 
He'd  undertake  to  prove,  by  force 
Of  argument,  a  man's  no  horse  ; 
He'd  prove  a  buzzard  is  no  fowl, 
And  that  a  lord  may  be  an  owl ; 
A  calf  an  alderman,  a  goose  a  justice, 
And  rooks  committee-men  and  trustees. 
He'd  run  in  debt  by  disputation. 
And  pay  with  ratiocination  : 
All  this  by  syllogism,  true 
In  mood  and  figure,  he  would  do. 
For  rhetoric,  he  could  not  ope 
His  mouth,  but  out  there  flew  a  trope  ; 
And  when  he  happened  to  break  off 
I'  the  middle  of  his  speech,  or  cough, 
H'  had  hard  words  ready  to  show  why, 
And  tell  what  rules  he  did  it  by ; 
Else  when  with  greatest  art  he  spoke, 
You'd  think  he  talked  like  other  folk ; 
For  all  a  rhetorician's  rules 
Teach  nothing  but  to  name  his  tools. 
But,  when  he  pleased  to  show't,  his  speech^ 
In  loftiness  of  sound,  was  rich  ; 
A  Babylonish  dialect. 
Which  learned  pedants  much  affect ; 
It  was  a  party-colored  dress 
Of  patched  and  piebald  languages  ; 
'Twas  English  cut  on  Greek  and  Latin, 
Like  fustian  heretofore  on  satin  ; 


SAMUEL   BUTLER.  —  RICHARD   LOVELACE.  83 

It  had  an  odd  promiscuous  tone, 

As  if  h'  had  talked  three  parts  in  one ; 

Which  made  some  think,  when  he  did  gabble, 

Th'  had  heard  three  laborers  of  Babel, 

Or  Cerberus  himself  pronounce 

A  leash  of  languages  at  once. 


RICHARD    LOVELACE. 

Richard  Lovelace  was  bom  in  1618,  and  was  educated  at  Oxford.  He  is  described  as 
possessing  great  personal  beauty  and  engaging  manners.  He  was  an  ardent  royalist,  and 
spent  the  whole  of  his  fortune  in  his  endeavors  to  aid  the  king.  He  suffered  imprisonment 
and  poverty  during  the  triumph  of  the  Commons,  and,  what  was  worse,  the  ingratitude  and 
neglect  of  the  court  after  the  Restoration.  He  died  in  1658,  in  utter  want,  never  having  the 
cause  to  sing  the  "mercy,  sweetness,  majesty"  of  the  heartless  debauchee  who  dishonored 
the  English  throne. 

TO   ALTHEA,    FROM   PRISON. 

When  love  with  unconfined  wings 

Hovers  within  my  gates, 
And  my  divine  Althea  brings 

To  whisper  at  my  grates  ; 
When  I  lie  tangled  in  her  hair, 

And  fettered  with  her  eye, 
The  birds  that  wanton  in  the  air 

Know  no  such  liberty. 

When  flowing  cups  run  swiftly  round. 

With  no  allaying  Thames, 
Our  careless  heads  with  roses  crowned. 

Our  hearts  with  loyal  flames  ; 
When  thirsty  grief  in  wine  we  steep, 

When  healths  and  draughts  go  free, 
Fishes  that  tipple  in  the  deep 

Know  no  such  liberty. 

When,  linnet-like,  confined,  I 

With  shriller  note  shall  sing 
The  mercy,  sweetness,  majesty, 

And  glories  of  my  king  ; 


o4  HAND-BOOK   OF  ENGLISH   LITERATURE, 

When  I  shall  voice  aloud  how  good 
He  is,  how  great  should  be, 

Th'  enlarged  winds,  that  curl  the  flood. 
Know  no  such  liberty. 

Stone  walls  do  not  a  prison  make, 

Nor  iron  bars  a  cage  ; 
Minds  innocent  and  quiet  take 

That  for  an  hermitage  : 
If  I  have  freedom  in  my  love, 

And  in  my  soul  am  free, 
Angels  alone,  that  soar  above, 

Enjoy  such  liberty. 


ANDREW   MARVELL. 

Andrew  Marvell  was  bom  in  a  village  in  Lincolnshire,  about  the  year  1620.  He  was  ed- 
ucated at  Cambridge,  and  afterwards  acted  as  an  assistant  to  Milton,  Latin  Secretary  for 
the  Commonwealth  under  Cromwell.  He  was  for  some  years  a  prominent  member  of  Par- 
liament, and  adhered  to  his  republican  principles  even  after  the  Restoration.  He  died  in 
1678.  He  was  a  voluminous  writer  upon  political  affairs ;  but  although  his  prose  is  forgot- 
ten, his  best  poems  continue  to  be  read  with  pleasure  by  all  persons  of  taste. 

THOUGHTS    IN   A   GARDEN. 

Fair  Quiet,  have  I  found  thee  here, 
And  Innocence,  thy  sister  dear  ? 
Mistaken  long,  I  sought  you  then 
In  busy  companies  of  men. 
,  Your  sacred  plants,  if  here  below, 
Only  among  the  plants  will  grow. 
Society  is  all  but  rude 
To  this  delicious  solitude. 

What  wondrous  life  in  this  I  lead  ! 
Ripe  apples  drop  about  my  head. 
The  luscious  clusters  of  the  vine 
Upon  my  mouth  do  crush  their  wine. 
The  nectarine  and  curious  peach 
Into  my  hands  themselves  do  reach. 
Stumbling  on  melons,  as  I  pass. 
Ensnared  with  flowers,  I  fall  on  grass. 


ANDREW   MARVELL.  85 

Meanwhile  the  mind  from  pleasure  less 

Withdraws  into  its  happiness  — 

The  mind,  that  ocean  where  each  kind 

Does  straight  its  own  resemblance  find  ; 

Yet  it  creates,  transcending  these, 

Far  other  worlds  and  other  seas  ; 

Annihilating  all  that's  made 

To  a  green  thought  in  a  green  shade. 

Here  at  the  fountain's  sliding  foot, 
Or  at  some  fruit  tree's  mossy  root. 
Casting  the  body's  vest  aside, 
My  soul  into  the  boughs  does  glide  ; 
There,  Hke  a  bird,  it  sits  and  sings. 
Then  whets  and  claps  its  silver  wings, 
And,  till  prepared  for  longer  flight. 
Waves  in  its  plumes  the  various  light. 

Such  was  the  happy  Garden-state, 
While  man  there  walked  without  a  mate : 
After  a  place  so  pure  and  sweet. 
What  other  help  could  yet  be  meet ! 
But  'twas  beyond  a  mortal's  share 
To  wander  solitary  there  : 
Two  paradises  are  in  one. 
To  live  in  paradise  alone. 

How  well  the  skilful  gardener  drew 
Of  flowers  and  herbs  this  dial  new ! 
Where,  from  above,  the  milder  sun 
Does  through  a  fragrant  zodiac  run : 
And,  as  it  works,  the  industrious  bee. 
Computes  its  time  as  well  as  we. 
How  could  such  sweet  and  wholesome  hours 
Be  reckoned,  but  with  herbs  and  flowers  ? 


86  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 


ISAAC   BARROW. 

Dr.  Isaac  Barrow,  an  eminent  scholar  and  divine,  was  born  in  London  in  1630.  He  stud- 
ied at  Cambridge,  and  appears  to  have  pursued  successfully  nearly  all  the  sciences  then 
known.  He  was  especially  eminent  in  mathematics  and  optics,  and  was  the  predecessor  of 
Newton  in  the  professor's  chair.  He  enjoyed  for  some  years  the  advantages  of  travel  and 
study  in  foreign  countries.  Later  he  turned  his  attention  to  theology,  and  enriched  the 
literature  of  the  English  church  with  a  series  of  copious,  learned,  and  powerful  works.  He 
died  in  1677. 

WHAT   IS   WIT  ? 

First,  it  may  be  demanded  what  the  thing  is  we  speak  of,  or  what 
this  facetiousness  doth  import  ?  To  which  question  I  might  reply 
as  Democritus  did  to  him  that  asked  the  definition  of  a  man :  "'Tis 
that  which  we  all  see  and  know."  Any  one  better  apprehends  what  it 
is  by  acquaintance  than  I  can  inform  him  by  description.  It  is  indeed 
a  thing  so  versatile  and  multiform,  appearing  in  so  many  shapes,  so 
many  postures,  so  many  garbs,  so  variously  apprehended  by  several 
eyes  and  judgments,  that  it  seemeth  no  less  hard  to  settle  a  clear 
and  certain  notion  thereof,  than  to  make  a  portrait  of  Proteus,  or  to 
define  the  figure  of  the  fleeting  air.  Sometimes  it  lieth  in  pat  allu- 
sion to  a  known  story,  or  in  seasonable  application  of  a  trivial  say- 
ing, or  in  forging  an  apposite  tale :  sometimes  it  playeth  in  words 
and  phrases,  taking  advantage  from  the  ambiguity  of  their  sense,  or 
the  affinity  of  their  sound.  Sometimes  it  is  wrapped  in  a  dress  of 
humorous  expression ;  sometimes  it  lurketh  under  an  odd  simili- 
tude ;  sometimes  it  is  lodged  in  a  sly  question,  in  a  smart  answer, 
in  a  quirkish  reason,  in  a  shrewd  intimation,  in  cunningly  diverting 
or  cleverly  retorting  an  objection :  sometimes  it  is  couched  in  a 
bold  scheme  of  speech,  in  a  tart  irony,  in  a  lusty  hyperbole,  in  a 
startling  metaphor,  in  a  plausible  reconcihng  of  contradictions,  or  in 
acute  nonsense  :  sometimes  a  scenical  representation  of  persons  or 
things,  a  counterfeit  speech,  a  mimical  look  or  gesture  passeth  for 
it:  sometimes  an  aifected  simphcity,  sometimes  a  presumptuous 
bluntness,  giveth  it  being :  sometimes  it  riseth  only  from  a  lucky 
hitting  upon  what  is  strange  ;  sometimes  from  a  crafty  wresting  ob- 
vious matter  to  the  purpose  ;  often  it  consists  in  one  knows  not  what, 
and  springe th  up  one  can  hardly  tell  how.  Its  ways  are  unaccounta- 
ble and  inexplicable,  being  answerable  to  the  numberless  rovings  of 
fancy  and  windings  of  language.  It  is,  in  short,  a  manner  of  speak- 
ing out  of  the  simple  and  plain  way  —  such  as  reason  teacheth  and 


ISAAC   BARROW.  —  JOHN   DRYDEN.  8/ 

proveth  things  by  —  which  by  a  pretty  surprising  uncouthness  in 
conceit  or  expression  doth  affect  and  amuse  the  fancy,  stirring  in  it 
some  wonder,  and  breeding  some  delight  thereto.  It  raiseth  ad- 
miration, as  signifying  a  nimble  sagacity  of  apprehension,  a  special 
felicity  of  invention,  a  vivacity  of  spirit  and  reach  of  wit  more  than 
vulgar.  It  seemeth  to  argue  a  rare  quickness  of  parts  that  one  can 
fetch  in  remote  conceits  apphcable  ;  a  notable  skill,  that  he  can  dex- 
terously accommodate  them  to  the  purpose  before  him  ;  together 
with  a  lively  briskness  of  humor,  not  apt  to  damp  those  sportful 
flashes  of  imagination.  Whence  in  Aristotle  such  persons  are 
termed  epidexioi,  dexterous  men  ;  and  eutropoi^  men  of  facile  or 
versatile  manners,  who  can  easily  turn  themselves  to  all  things,  or 
turn  all  things  to  themselves.  It  also  procureth  delight,  by  gratify- 
ing curiosity  with  its  rareness  or  semblance  of  difficulty ;  as  mon- 
sters, not  for  their  beauty,  but  their  rarity ;  as  juggling  tricks,  not 
for  their  use,  but  their  abstruseness,  are  beheld  with  pleasure,  by 
diverting  the  mind  from  its  road  of  serious  thoughts  ;  by  instilling 
gayety  and  airiness  of  spirit ;  by  provoking  to  such  dispositions  of 
spirit  in  way  of  emulation  or  complaisance  ;  and  by  seasoning  mat- 
ters, otherwise  distasteful  or  insipid,  with  an  unusual  and  thence 
grateful  tang. 


JOHN    DRYDEN. 

John  Dryden  was  born  in  163 1,  and  was  educated  at  Westminster,  and  afterwards  at 
Cambridge.  He  wrote  some  of  his  noblest  verses  on  the  death  of  Cromwell,  but,  after  the 
Restoration,  was  a  flatterer  of  the  court  of  Charles  II.  Bred  a  Protestant,  he  became  a 
Catholic  upon  the  accession  of  James  II.  Whether  these  changes  were  sincere  may  well 
be  doubted.  It  is  with  his  works,  however,  that  we  have  chiefly  to  do,  and  those  who  have 
little  regard  for  him  as  a  man  must  admit  his  claims  to  a  very  high  place  among  authors. 
His  first  success  was  as  a  dramatist,  but  his  plays  no  longer  interest  the  public  ;  they  were 
written  to  suit  an  age  of  unbridled  license.  Absalom  and  Achitophel,  a  political  satire, 
gained  him  unbounded  applause.  Religio  Laici  was  written  in  favor  of  the  Established 
Church  against  the  Dissenters.  T\\z  Hind  and  Panther  is  a  defence  of  his  conversion  to 
the  Roman  Catholic  Church  —  a  conversion  that  followed  the  renewal  of  his  pension  as  poet- 
laureate  by  James.  After  the  revolution  of  1688,  Dryden  gave  to  the  world,  among  other 
translations,  his  unsatisfactory  one  of  Virgil,  allowing  almost  all  the  traits  which  the  Man- 
tuan  poet  had  not.  His  highest  achievement  is  the  ode,  Alexander's  Feast,  which  follows. 
He  was  lord  paramount  of  the  writers  of  his  day,  receiving  and  exacting  homage  from  all. 
Lacking  wholly  the  finer  qualities  of  a  poet,  —  sensibility,  truth,  imagination,  and  refine- 
ment, —  he  had  at  command  a  copious  and  splendid  diction,  a  sense  of  stately  melody,  great 
power  of  thought,  a  ready  tact,  and  a  talent  for  satirical  invective  that  a  modern  platform 
orator  might  envy.  It  will  be  noticed  that  he  is  almost  the  only  one  of  the  many  royalist 
authors  who  gained  anything  by  "crooking  the  pregnant  hinges  of  the  knee  "  to  the  mon- 
arch whose  "happy  and  glorious  restoration  "  they  sang.      His  comp)et2  poems  are  in- 


88  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

eluded  in  Professor  Child's  edition  of  British  Poets.  For  a  very  learned  and  interesting 
review  of  his  life  and  works  (somewhat  too  favorable),  see  Professor  Lowell's  "Among  My 
Books." 

ALEXANDER'S   FEAST. 

'TwAS  at  the  royal  feast,  for  Persia  won 
By  Philip's  warlike  son  — 
Aloft  in  awful  state 
The  godlike  hero  sate 

On  his  imperial  throne  ; 
His  valiant  peers  were  placed  around, 
Their  brows  with  roses  and  with  myrtle  bound  ; 

So  should  desert  in  arms  be  crowned. 
The  lovely  Thais  by  his  side 
Sat,  like  a  blooming  Eastern  bride, 
In  flower  of  youth  and  beauty's  pride. 
Happy,  happy,  happy  pair  ! 
None  but  the  brave. 
None  but.  the  brave, 
None  but  the  brave  deserves  the  fair ! 

Timotheus,  placed  on  high 

Amid  the  tuneful  quire. 
With  flying  fingers  touched  the  lyre  : 
The  trembling  notes  ascend  the  sky, 
And  heavenly  joys  inspire. 
The  song  began  from  Jove, 
Who  left  his  blissful  seats  above  ; 
Such  is  the  power  of  mighty  Love  ! 
A  dragon's  fiery  form  belied  the  god : 
Sublime  on  radiant  spheres  he  rode. 

When  he  to  fair  Olympia  pressed ; 
And  while  he  sought  her  snowy  breast, 
Then  round  her  slender  waist  he  curled. 
And  stamped  an  image  of  himself,  a  sovereign  of  the  world. 
The  listening  crowd  admire  the  lofty  sound, 
A  present  deity,  they  shout  around ; 
A  present  deity,  the  vaulted  roofs  rebound : 
With  ravished  ears 
The  monarch  hears, 
Assumes  the  god. 
Affects  to  nod. 
And  seems  to  shake  the  spheres. 


JOHN   DRYDEN.  89 

The  praise  of  Bacchus  then  the  sweet  musician  sung, 
Of  Bacchus  ever  fair,  and  ever  young. 
The  jolly  god  in  triumph  comes  ; 
Sound  the  trumpets,  beat  the  drums  ; 
Flushed  with  a  purple  grace 
He  shows  his  honest  face  : 
Now  give  the  hautboys  breath  ;  he  comes,  he  comes. 
Bacchus,  ever  fair  and  young. 
Drinking  joys  did  first  ordain  ; 
Bacchus'  blessings  are  a  treasure, 
Drinking  is  the  soldier's  pleasure  ; 
Rich  the  treasure, 
Sweet  the  pleasure, 
Sweet  is  pleasure  after  pain. 

Soothed  with  the  sound  the  king  grew  vain ; 
Fought  all  his  battles  o'er  again  ; 
And  thrice  he  routed  all  his  foes,  and  thrice  he  slew  the  slain. 
The  master  saw  the  madness  rise. 
His  glowing  cheeks,  his  ardent  eyes  ; 
And  while  he  heaven  and  earth  defied. 
Changed  his  hand,  and  checked  his  pride. 
He  chose  a  mournful  muse, 
Soft  pity  to  infuse  ; 
He  sung  Darius  great  and  good, 
By  too  severe  a  fate. 
Fallen,  fallen,  fallen,  fallen, 
Fallen  from  his  high  estate, 
And  weltering  in  his  blood  ; 
Deserted  at  his  utmost  need 
By  those  his  former  bounty  fed  ; 
On  the  bare  earth  exposed  he  Hes, 
With  not  a  friend  to  close  his  eyes. 

With  downcast  looks  the  joyless  victor  sate, 
Revolving  in  his  altered  soul 

The  various  turns  of  chance  below ; 
And,  now  and  then,  a  sigh  he  stole, 
And  tears  began  to  flow. 

The  mighty  master  smiled  to  see 
That  love  wa§  in  the  next  degree  ; 


90  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

'Twas  but  a  kindred  sound  to  move, 
For  pity  melts  the  mind  to  love. 

Softly  sweet,  in  Lydian  measures, 
Soon  he  soothed  his  soul  to  pleasures. 
War,  he  sung,  is  toil  and  trouble  ; 
Honor  but  an  empty  bubble  ; 

Never  ending,  still  beginning, 
Fighting  still,  and  still  destroying : 

If  the  world  be  worth  thy  winning, 
Think,  O  think  it  worth  enjoying : 
Lovely  Thais  sits  beside  thee. 
Take  the  good  the  gods  provide  thee. 
The  many  rend  the  skies  with  loud  applause  ; 
So  love  was  crowned,  but  music  won  the  cause. 
The  prince,  unable  to  conceal  his  pain, 
Gazed  on  the  fair 
Who  caused  his  care. 
And  sighed  and  looked,  sighed  and  looked, 
Sighed  and  looked,  and  sighed  again  ; 
At  length,  with  love  and  wine  at  once  oppressed, 
The  vanquished  victor  sunk  upon  her  breast. 

Now  strike  the  golden  lyre  again  ; 

A  louder  yet,  and  yet  a  louder  strain. 

Break  his  bands  of  sleep  asunder. 

And  rouse  him,  like  a  rattling  peal  of  thunder. 

Hark,  hark,  the  horrid  sound 

Has  raised  up  his  head  ; 

As  awaked  from  the  dead. 

And  amazed,  he  stares  around. 
Revenge,  revenge,  Timotheus  cries, 

See  the  Furies  arise  ; 

See  the  snakes  that  they  rear. 

How  they  hiss  in  their  hair, 
And  the  sparkles  that  flash  from  their  eyes  ! 

Behold  a  ghastly  band. 

Each  a  torch  in  his  hand  ! 
Those  are  Grecian  ghosts,  that  in  battle  were  slain, 
And  unburied  remain 
Inglorious  on  the  plain : 


JOHN    DRYDEN.  9i 

Give  the  vengeance  due 
To  the  vaHant  crew. 
Behold  how  they  toss  their  torches  on  high, 
How  they  point  to  the  Persian  abodes, 
And  gHttering  temples  of  their  hostile  gods. 
The  princes  applaud  with  a  furious  joy ; 
And  the  king  seized  a  flambeau  with  zeal  to  destroy  ; 
Thais  led  the  way, 
To  light  him  to  his  prey. 
And,  like  another  Helen,  fired  another  Troy. 

Thus  long  ago, 

Ere  heaving  bellows  learned  to  blow, 
While  organs  yet  were  mute, 
Timotheus,  to  his  breathing  flute 
And  sounding  lyre, 
Could  swell  the  soul  to  rage,  or  kindle  soft  desire. 
At  last  divine  Cecilia  came, 
Inventress  of  the  vocal  frame  ; 
The  sweet  enthusiast,  from  her  sacred  store, 
Enlarged  the  former  narrow  bounds. 
And  added  length  to  solemn  sounds. 
With  Nature's  mother-wit,  and  arts  unknown  before. 
Let  old  Timotheus  yield  the  prize, 

Or  both  divide  the  crown  : 
He  raised  a  mortal  to  the  skies  ; 
She  drew  an  angel  down. 


ON   MILTON. 

Three  poets,  in  three  distant  ages  bom, 
Greece,  Italy,  and  England  did  adorn. 
The  first  in.  loftiness  of  thought  surpassed, 
The  next  in  majesty,  in  both  the  last. 
The  force  of  nature  could  no  further  go  ; 
To  make  a  third,  she  joined  the  other  two. 


92  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 


DANIEL   DEFOE. 

Daniel  Defoe  was  bom  in  London  in  1661,  and  died  in  1731.  He  was  the  author  of  more 
than  two  hundred  separate  works,  including  political  pamphlets.  His  best  known  book, 
Robinson  Crusoe,  has  probably  had  more  readers  than  any  printed  in  English  except  the 
Bible.  No  schoolboy  will  need  to  be  reminded  of  its  wonderful  naturalness,  its  simple  air 
of  truth,  its  easy,  unconscious  and  idiomatic  style.  Equally  striking  is  the  Journal  of  the 
Plague  in  London.  In  this  work  the  reader  is  made  a  fellow-spectator  of  the  horrors 
described ;  and  throughout  the  long  narrative,  which  is  faithful  to  history  and  filled  with 
minute  and  vivid  pictures,  the  interest  never  for  a  moment  flags. 

The  labors  of  this  brave  and  indefatigable  author  brought  him  the  usual  return.  His  long 
life  was  spent  in  poverty,  and  occasionally  in  prison.  Liberty  of  the  press  was  then 
unknown.  Criticisms  upon  the  acts  of  the  ministry  were  termed  libels,  and  the  answers 
which  the  powerful  made  to  the  critic  or  satirist  were  fines,  the  dungeon,  and  the  pillory. 
Defoe  suffered  all  of  these  with  an  unflinching  courage. 

As  an  essayist,  he  was  the  precursor  of  Addison  and  Steele  ;  as  a  novelist,  the  master  of 
Richardson,  Fielding,  Thackeray,  and  Dickens ;  as  a  defender  of  popular  rights,  he  is 
entitled  to  the  homage  of  all  liberty-loving  men. 

In  the  narratives  of  Defoe  the  interest  is  so  equally  diffused,  and  the  plots  are  so 
inartificial,  that  it  is  extremely  difficult  to  make  any  selections.  It  is  in  their  cumulative 
effect  that  the  power  of  his  works  is  felt.  A  handsome  and  useful  volume,  containing  his 
best  works,  has  been  published  by  W.  J.  Swayne,  of  New  York. 

[From  Robinson  Crusoe.  — Appearance  of  Friday.] 

He  was  a  comely,  handsome  fellow,  perfectly  well  made,  with 
straight,  strong  Hmbs,  not  too  large,  tall  and  well  shaped,  and,  as  I 
reckon,  about  twenty-six  years  of  age.  He  had  a  very  good  counte- 
nance, not  a  fierce  and  surly  aspect,  but  seemed  to  have  something 
very  manly  in  his  face  ;  and  yet  he  had  all  the  sweetness  and  softness 
of  an  European  in  his  countenance,  too,  especially  when  he  smiled. 
His  hair  was  long  and  black,  not  curled  like  wool,  his  forehead  very 
high  and  large,  and  a  great  vivacity  and  sparkling  sharpness  in  his 
eyes.  The  color  of  his  skin  was  not  quite  black,  but  very  tawny, 
and  yet  not  of  any  ugly,  yellow,  nauseous  tawny,  as  the  Brazilians 
and  Virginians,  and  other  natives  of  America  are  ;  but  of  a  bright 
kind  of  a  dun  olive  color,  that  had  in  it  something  very  agreeable, 
though  not  very  easy  to  describe.  His  face  was  round  and  plump  ; 
his  nose  small,  not  flat,  like  the  negro's,  a  very  good  mouth,  thin 
hps,  and  his  fine  teeth  well  set,  and  white  as  ivory.  After  he  had 
slumbered,  father  than  slept,  about  half  an  hour,  he  waked  again, 
and  comes  out  of  the  cave  to  me,  for  I  had  been  milking  my  goats, 
which  I  had  in  the  enclosure  just  by  :  when  he  espied  me,  he  came 
running  to  me,  laying  himself  down  again  upon  the  ground,  with  all 
the  possible  signs  of  an  humble  thankful  disposition,  making  a  many 
antic  gestures  to  show  it :  at  last  he  lays  his  head  flat  upon  the 
ground,  close  to  my  foot,  and  sets  my  other  foot  upon  his  head,  as 


DANIEL   DEFOE.  93 

he  had  done  before  ;  and  after  this,  made  all  the  signs  to  me  of  sub- 
jection, servitude,  and  submission  imaginable,  to  let  me  know  how 
he  would  serve  me  as  long  as  he  lived.  I  understood  him  in  many 
things,  and  let  him  know  I  was  very  well  pleased  with  him  ;  in  a 
little  time  I  began  to  speak  to  him,  and  teach  him  to  speak  to  me ; 
«ind  first,  I  let  him  know  his  name  should  be  Friday,  which  was  the 
day  I  saved  his  life  ;  I  called  him  so  for  the  memory  of  the  time  ;  I 
likewise  taught  him  to  say  master,  and  let  him  know  that  was  to  be 
my  name  ;  I  likewise  taught  him  to  say  yes  and  no,  and  to  know 
the  meaning  of  them  ;  I  gave  him  some  milk  in  an  earthen  pot,  and 
let  him  see  me  drink  it  before  him,  and  sop  my  bread  in  it ;  and  I 
gave  him  a  cake  of  bread  to  do  the  like,  which  he  quickly  complied 
with,  and  made  signs  that  it  was  very  good  for  him. 

But  I  needed  none  of  all  this  precaution  ;  for  never  man  had  a 
more  faithful,  loving,  sincere  servant,  than  Friday  was  to  me  ;  with- 
out passions,  sullenness,  or  designs,  perfectly  obliged  and  engaged, 
his  very  affections  were  tied  to  me,  like  those  of  a  child  to  a  father ; 
and  I  dare  say  he  would  have  sacrificed  his  life  for  the  saving  mine 
upon  any  occasion  whatsoever ;  the  many  testimonies  he  gave  me  of 
this,  put  it  out  of  doubt,  and  soon  convinced  me  that  I  needed  to 
use  no  precautions  as  to  my  safety  on  his  account. 

This  frequently  gave  me  occasion  to  observe,  and  that  with  won- 
der, that  however  it  had  pleased  God,  in  his  providence,  and  in  the 
government  of  the  works  of  his  hands,  to  take  from  so  great  a  part 
of  the  world  of  his  creatures  the  best  uses  to  which  their  faculties 
and  the  powers  of  their  souls  are  adapted,  yet  that  He  has  bestowed 
upon  them  the  same  powers,  the  same  reason,  the  same  affections, 
the  same  sentiments  of  kindness  and  obligation,  the  same  passions 
and  resentments  of  wrongs,  the  same  sense  of  gratitude,  sinceri- 
ty, and  fidelity,  and  all  the  capacities  of  doing  good  and  receiving 
good,  that  He  has  given  to  us  ;  and  tha»  when  He  pleases  to  offer 
to  them  occasions  of  exerting  these,  they  are  as  ready,  nay,  more 
ready,  to  apply  them  to  the  right  uses  for  which  they  were  bestowed, 
than  we  are.  And  this  made  me  very  melancholy  sometimes,  in 
reflecting,  as  the  several  occasions  presented,  how  mean  a  use  we 
make  of  all  these,  even  though  we  have  these  powers  enlightened  by 
the  great  lamp  of  instruction,  the  Spirit  of  God,  and  by  the  knowl- 
edge of  his  word  added  to  our  understanding;  and  why  it  has 
pleased  God  to  hide  the  like  saving  knowledge  from  so  many  mil- 
lions of  souls,  who,  if  I  might  judge  by  this  poor  savage,  would  make 
a  much  better  use  of  it  than  we  did. 


94  HAND-BOOK.  OF  ENGLISH   UTERATURE. 

[From  the  Journal  of  the  Plague.] 

As  I  went  along  Houndsditch  one  morning  about  eight  o'clock, 
there  was  a  great  noise.  It  is  true,  indeed,  there  was  not  much 
crowd,  because  the  people  were  not  very  free  to  gather  together,  or 
to  stay  long  together  when  they  were  there  ;  nor  did  I  stay  long 
there  ;  but  the  outcry  was  loud  enough  to  prompt  my  curiosity,  and 
I  called  to  one,  who  looked  out  of  a  window,  and  asked  what  was 
the  matter.  A  watchman,  it  seems,  had  been  employed  to  keep  his 
post  at  the  door  of  a  house  which  was  infected,  or  said  to  be  in- 
fected, and  was  shut  up.  He  had  been  there  all  night,  for  two 
nights  together,  as  he  told  his  story,  and  the  day  watchman  had 
been  there  one  day,  and  was  now  come  to  relieve  him.  All  this 
while  no  noise  had  been  heard  in  the  house,  no  light  had  been  seen, 
they  called  for  nothing,  had  sent  him  no  errands,  which  used  to  be 
the  chief  business  of  the  watchman  ;  neither  had  they  given  him 
any  disturbance,  as  he  said,  from  Monday  afternoon,  when  he  heard 
a  great  crying  and  screaming  in  the  house,  which,  as  he  supposed, 
was  occasioned  by  some  of  the  family  dying  just  at  that  time. 

It  seems,  the  night  before,  the  dead-cart,  as  it  was  called,  had 
been  stopped  there,  and  a  servant-maid  had  been  brought  down  to 
the  door  dead,  and  the  buriers,  or  bearers,  as  they  were  called,  put 
her  into  the  cart,  wrapped  only  in  a  green  rug,  and  carried  her  away. 

The  watchman  had  knocked  at  the  door,  it  seems,  when  he  heard 
that  noise  and  crying,  as  above,  and  nobody  answered  a  great  while  ; 
but  at  last  one  looked  out,  and  said,  with  an  angry,  quick  tone,  and  yet 
a  kind  of  crying  voice,  or  a  voice  of  one  that  was  crying,  "  What  d'ye 
want,  that  you  make  such  a  knocking  ?  " 

He  answered,  "  I  am  the  watchman.  How  do  you  do  ?  What  is 
the  matter  ?  " 

The  person  answered,  "  What  is  that  to  you  ?    Stop  the  dead-cart." 

This,  it  seems,  was  about  one  o'clock ;  soon  after,  as  the  fellow 
said,  he  stopped  the  dead-cart,  and  then  knocked  again,  but  nobody 
answered.  He  continued  knocking,  and  the  bellman  called  out  sev- 
eral times,  "  Bring  out  your  dead ; "  but  nobody  answered,  till  the 
man  that  drove  the  cart,  being  called  to, other  houses,  would  stay  no 
longer,  and  drove  away.  The  watchman  knew  not  what  to  make 
of  all  this  ;  so  he  let  them  alone  till  the  morning  man,  or  day  watch- 
man, as  they  called  him,  came  to  relieve  him ;  giving  him  an  account 
of  the  particulars,  they  knocked  at  the  door  a  great  while,  but  no- 
body answered,  and  they  observed  that  the  window  or  casement,  at 


JONATHAN    SWIFT.  95 

which  the  person  looked  out  who  had  answered  before,  continued 
open,  being  up  two  pair  of  stairs. 

Upon  this  the  two  men,  to  satisfy  their  curiosity,  got  a  long  lad- 
der, and  one  of  them  went  up  to  the  window,  and  looked  into  the 
room,  where  he  saw  a  woman  lying  dead  upon  the  floor,  in  a  dismal 
manner,  having  no  clothes  on  her  but  her  shift;  but,  though  he 
called  aloud,  and,  putting  in  his  long  staff,  knocked  hard  on  the 
floor,  yet  nobody  stirred  or  answered,  neither  could  he  hear  any 
noise  in  the  house. 

He  came  down  again  upon  this,  and  acquainted  his  fellow,  who  went 
up  also,  and,  finding  it  just  so,  they  resolved  to  acquaint  either  the  lord 
mayor  or  some  other  magistrate  of  it,  but  did  not  offer  to  go  in  at  the 
window.  The  magistrate,  it  seems,  upon  the  information  of  the  two 
men,  ordered  the  house  to  be  broke  open,  a  constable  and  other  per- 
sons being  appointed  to  be  present,  that  nothing  might  be  plundered  ; 
and  accordingly  it  was  so  done,  when  nobody  was  found  in  the  house 
but  that  young  woman,  who  having  been  infected  and  past  recovery, 
the  rest  had  left  her  to  die  by  herself,  and  every  one  gone,  having  found 
some  way  to  delude  the  watchman,  and  to  get  open  the  door,  or  get 
out  at  some  back  door,  or  over  the  tops  of  the  houses,  so  that  he 
knew  nothing  of  it ;  and  as  to  those  cries  and  shrieks  which  he  heard, 
it  was  supposed  they  were  the  passionate  cries  of  the  family  at  this 
bitter  parting,  which,  to  be  sure,  it  was  to  them  all,  this  being  the  sis- 
ter to  the  mistress  of  the  family.  The  man  of  the  house,  his  wife, 
several  children,  and  servants,  being  all  gone  and  fled,  whether  sick 
or  sound,  that  I  could  never  learn,  nor,  indeed,  did  I  make  much  in- 
quiry after  it. 


JONATHAN    SWIFT. 

Jonathan  Swift  was  born  in  Dublin,  of  English  parents,  in  1667.  He  entered  the  univer- 
sity of  his  native  city  at  the  age  of  fourteen,  where  he  distinguished  himself  by  the  ardent 
pursuit  of  almost  all  the  studies  that  were  not  prescribed  by  the  faculty.  He  held  scholas- 
tic learning,  especially  the  formal  rules  of  logic,  in  light  esteem,  but  was  a  prodigious  reader 
of  history  and  poetry.  He  entered  the  church,  but,  being  a  strong  Tory  partisan,  he  in- 
curred the  persistent  enmity  of  the  ruling  powers  of  Queen  Anne's  court.  His  numerous 
and  brilliant  works  got  him  no  influential  friends,  and  his  hopes  of  honor  and  place  were 
disappointed.  With  more  wit,  vigor,  and  resources  than  any  living  churchman,  he  never 
attained  the  coveted  bishopric ;  but  he  has  made  the  name  of  the  "Dean  of  St.  Patrick's  " 
famous  wherever  our  literature  is  read. 

His  principal  works  are  Gulliver's  Travels,  an  ingenious  satire  upon  the  statesmen  of 
the  time  ;  the  Tale  of  a  Tub,  a  theological  treatise  in  disguise ;  the  Drapier  Letters,  an 
indignant  protest  against  the  base  coinage  which  the  government  allowed  to  be  sent  over 
to  Ireland,  and  his  letters  and  poems.     His  prose  is  of  the  most  racy  and  vigorous  sort 


96 


HAND-BOOK    OF   ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 


often  coarse,  but  never  diffuse.  His  verse  has  no  variety  of  rhythm,  no  pathos,  no  delicacy, 
and  httle  fancy ;  anything  farther  removed  from  poetry,  as  the  term  is  now  received,  can 
hardly  be  conceived  ;  but  his  satire  has  a  pungency  that  stings  to  this  day,  and  in  originality 
and  force  of  thought  he  must  be  ranked  among  the  first  of  Englishmen. 

In  disposition  he  was  niggardly,  rude,  and  ungracious  ;  yet  he  was  capable  of  strong 
friendships,  and  was  highly  esteemed  by  Addison,  Pope,  and  other  contemporaries.  The 
darkest  stain  upon  his  character  is  his  base  treatment  of  the  two  brilliant  women  whom  he 
has  immortalized  under  the  names  of  "Stella"  and  "Vanessa."  Their  unfortunate,  at- 
tachment to  this  cold  and  inscrutable  man  is  one  of  the  saddest  episodes  in  literary  biog- 
raphy. His  later  years  were  clouded  by  lunacy,  ending  in  the  total  darkness  which  fell  in  1745. 
His  poems  are  included  in  the  edition  mentioned  before.  Gulhver's  Travels  and  the  Tale 
of  a  Tub  are  to  be  had  in  many  forms.     His  other  works  are  but  little  read. 


[On  Poetry. 
All  human  race  would  fain  be  wits, 
And  millions  miss  for  one  that  hits. 
Young's  universal  passion,  pride, 
Was  never  known  to  spread  so  wide. 
Say,  Britain,  could  you  ever  boast 
Three  poets  in  an  age  at  most  ? 
Our  chilling  climate  hardly  bears 
A  sprig  of  bays  in  fifty  years  ; 
While  every  fool  his  claim  alleges, 
As  if  it  grew  in  common  hedges. 
What  reason  can  there  be  assigned 
For  this  perverseness  in  the  mind? 
Brutes  find  out  where  their  talents  lie : 
A  bear  will  not  attempt  to  fly  ; 
A  foundered  horse  will  oft  debate 
Before  he  tries  a  five-barred  gate  ; 
A  dog  by  instinct  turns  aside, 
Who  sees  the  ditch  too  deep  and  wide. 
But  man  we  find  the  only  creature 
Who,  led  by  Fo!Iy,  combats  Nature  ; 
Who,  when  she  loudly  cries.  Forbear, 
With  obstinacy  fixes  there  ; 
And,  where  his  genius  least  inclines, 
Absurdly  bends  his  whole  designs. 
Not  empire  to  the  rising  sun 
By  valor,  conduct,  fortune  won  ; 
Not  highest  wisdom  in  debates 
For  framing  laws  to  govern  states  ; 
Not  skill  in  sciences  profound 
So  large  to  grasp  the  circle  round. 
Such  heavenly  influence  require, 
As  how  to  strike  the  Muse's  lyre. 

Consult  yourself,  and  if  you  find 
A  powerfiil  impulse  urge  your  mind. 
Impartial  judge  within  your  breast 
What  subject  you  can  manage  best ; 
Whether  your  genius  most  inclines 
To  satirs,  praise,  or  humorous  lines. 
To  elegies  in  mournful  tone. 
Or  prologue  sent  from  hand  unknown. 


A  Rhapsody.     1733-] 

Then,  rising  with  Aurora's  light. 

The  Muse  invoked,  sit  down  to  write  ; 

Blot  out,  correct,  insert,  refine. 

Enlarge,  diminish,  interline  ; 

Be  mindful,  when  invention  fails. 

To  scratch  your  head  and  bite  your  nails. 

Your  poem  finished,  next  your  care 

Is  needful  to  transcribe  it  fair. 

In  modern  wit  all  printed  trash  is 

Set  oflf  with  numerous  breaks  and  dashes. 

To  statesmen  would  you  give  a  wipe, 

You  print  it  in  Italic  type. 

When  letters  are  in  vulgar  shapes, 

'Tis  ten  to  one  the  wit  escapes  : 

But,  when  in  capitals  expressed, 

The  dullest  reader  smokes  the  jest : 

Or  else  perhaps  he  may  invent 

A  better  than  the  poet  meant  ; 

As  learned  commentators  view 

In  Homer  more  than  Homer  knew. 

Your  poem  in  its  modish  dress, 
Correctly  fitted  for  the  press. 
Convey  by  penny-post  to  Lintot, 
But  let  no  friend  alive  look  into't. 
If  Lintot  thinks  'twill  quit  the  cost, 
You  need  not  fear  your  labor  lost : 
And  how  agreeably  surprised 
Are  you  to  see  it  advertised  I 
The  hawker  shows  you  one  in  print, 
As  fresh  as  farthings  fi-om  the  mint : 

Be  sure  at  Will's,  the  following  day, 
Lie  snug,  and  hear  what  critics  sa^.'; 
And,  if  you  find  the  general  vogue 
Prop.ouncesyou  a  stupid  rogue. 
Damns  all  your  thoughts  as  low  and  little. 
Sit  still,  and  swallow  down  your  spittle  ; 
Be  silent  as  a  politician, 
For  talking  may  beget  suspicion  ; 
Or  praise  the  judgment  of  the  town. 
And  help  yourself  to  run  it  down. 
Give  up  your  fond  paternal  pride. 


JOSEPH   ADDISON. 


97 


Nor  argue  on  the  weaker  side  : 
For,  poems  read  without  a  name 
We  justly  praise,  or  justly  blame  ; 
And  critics  have  no  partial  views, 
Except  tliey  know  whom  they  abuse  ; 
And,  since  you  ne'er  provoke  their  spite, 
Depend  upoii't  their  judgment's  right. 

Your  secret  kept,  your  poem  sunk. 
And  sent  in  quires  to  line  a  trunk, 
If  still  you  be  disposed  to  rhyme, 
Go  try  your  hand  a  second  time. 
Again  you  fail ;  yet  Safe's  the  word  ; 
Take  courage,  and  attempt  a  third. 
But  first  with  care  employ  your  thoughts 
Where  critics  marked  your  former  faults : 
The  trivial  turns,  the  borrowed  wit. 
The  similes  that  nothing  fit ; 
The  cant  which  every  fool  repeats. 
Town  jests  and  coffee-house  conceits. 
Descriptions  tedious,  flat,  and  dry. 
And  introduced  the  Lord  knows  why  ; 
Or  where  we  find  your  fury  set 
Against  the  harmless  alphabet : 
On  A's  and  B's  your  malice  vent, 
While  readers  wonder  whom  you  meant : 
A  public  or  a  private  robber  : 
A  statesman  or  a  South  Sea  jobber  ; 
A  prelate,  who  no  God  believes  ; 
A  parliament  or  den  of  thieves  ; 
A  pickpurse  at  the  bar  or  bench. 
A  duchess,  or  a  suburb  wench  ; 
Or  oft,  when  epithets  you  link, 
In  gaping  lines  to  fill  a  chink. 
Like  stepping-stones,  to  save  a  stride, 
In  streets  where  kennels  are  too  wide  ; 


Or  like  a  heel-piece,  to  support 
A  cripple  with  one  foot  too  short ; 
Or  like  a  bridge  that  joins  a  marish 
To  moorlands  of  a  different  parish. 
So  have  I  seen  ill-coupled  hounds 
Drag  different  ways  in  miry  grounds, 
So  geographers,  in  Afric  maps. 
With  savage  pictures  fill  their  gaps, 
And  o'er  unliabitable  downs 
Place  elephants  for  want  of  towns. 

The  greater  for  the  smaller  watch. 
But  seldom  meddle  with  their  match. 
A  whale  of  moderate  size  will  draw 
A  shoal  of  herrings  down  his  maw  ; 
A  fox  with  geese  his  belly  crams ; 
A  wolf  destroys  a  thousand  lambs  ; 
But  search  among  the  rhyming  race, 
The  brave  are  worried  by  the  base. 
If  on  Parnassus'  top  you  sit, 
You  rarely  bite,  are  always  bit  : 
Each  poet  of  inferior  size 
On  you  shall  rail  and  criticise, 
And  strive  to  tear  you  limb  from  lirab, 
While  others  do  as  much  for  him. 
The  vermin  only  tease  and  pinch 
Their  foes  superior  by  an  inch. 
So,  naturalists  observe,  a  flea 
Has  smaller  fleas  that  on  him  prey  ; 
And  these  have  smaller  still  to  bite  *em, 
And  so  proceed  ad  infinitum. 
Thus  every  poet,  in  his  kind. 
Is  bit  by  him  that  comes  behind  : 
Who,  though  too  little  to  be  seen, 
C.in  tease,  and  gall,  and  give  the  spleen. 


JOSEPH   ADDISON. 

Joseph  Addison  was  bom  in  1672,  and  was  educated  at  Oxford.  His  first  efforts  were  in 
verse,  stately,  frigid,  and  artificial,  read  now  only  by  the  curious  in  literary  history.  An 
amusing  reference  to  one  of  his  "rhymed  gazettes, "  the  Battle  of  Blenheim,  may  be  seen 
in  "Henry  Esmond."  But  verses  in  the  interests  of  party  have  generally  brought  their 
price,  and  Addison  was  at  once  pensioned  and  distinguished.  He  rose  through  several 
public  offices  to  be  Secretary  of  State,  but  never  displayed  any  marked  ability  as  a  statesman, 
and  none  whatever  as  a  debater.  It  was  fortunate  that  he  was  not  diverted  from  the  field  in 
which  he  has  gained  an  imperishable  fame.  His  essays  in  the  Spectator  and  Tatler  are 
cited  by  all  critics  as  models  of  pure  English,  "familiar  but  not  coarse,  elegant  but  not  osten- 
tatious." They  touch  upon  a  great  variety  of  subjects,  mostly  of  an  unambitious  sort,  the 
minor  morals  and  domestic  life,  together  with  occasional  criticisms.  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley, 
who  figures  in  the  Spectator  is  a  delightful  creation  •  "for  anything  finer,"  says  Macaulay, 
"we  must  go  to  Shakespeare  or  Cervantes." 

Addison  was  a  shy  and  reserved  man  ;  jealous  and  taciturn,  his  enemies  said.  Pope's 
7 


Ma 


/ 


JLJSH   LITERATURE. 


98  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENG 

severe  characterization  of  him  as  "Atticus"  is  too  well  known  to  be  quoted  here.  He 
married  a  lady  of  high  rank,  the  Countess  of  Warwick,  with  whom  he  lived  unhappily,  and 
from  whose  society  he  often  escaped  to  the  tavern,  where  he  could  talk  upon  literature  with 
a  friend  over  a  bottle  of  claret.     He  died  in  1719. 

For  a  delightful  essay  upon  his  life  and  works  the  reader  is  referred  to  the  Essays  of 
Macaulay.    The  works  we  have  mentioned  are  to  be  found  in  any  collection  of  British  authors. 

[From  the  Spectator.] 

No.  106.     Monday,  July  2,  171 1. 

Hinc  tibi  copia 


'' ,   ^fX/^f  (  Manabit  ad  plenum,  benigno 


t 


Ruris  honorum  opulenta  comu.  —  HoR.  Od.  I.  17,  14. 


P    _^  *  J^OLS^  Here  plenty's  liberal  horn  shall  pour 

'    ,{fL  ^^^"^^"^^^V^      J^  Offruits  for  thee  a  copious  shower, 

"ir    '       jyttr'tx^'^^  Rich  honors  of  the  quiet  plain. 


f,Xr^- 


,     Having  often  received  an  invitation  from  my  friend  Sir  Roger  de 
'''^overley  to  pass  away  a  month  with  him  in  the  country,  I  last  week 
I  accompanied  him  thither,  and  am  settled  with  him  for  some  time  at 

j(/  /W  ^^'  his  country-house,  where  I  intend  to  form  several  of  my  ensuing 
ff-^yf,,:'^  speculations.  Sir  Roger,  who  is  very  well  acquainted  with  my 
humor,  lets  me  rise  and  go  to  bed  when  I  please,  dine  at  his  own 
table  or  in  my  chamber  as  I  think  fit,  sit  still  and  say  nothing  with- 
out bidding  me  be  merry.  When  the  gentlemen  of  the  country  come 
to  see  him,  he  only  shows  me  at  a  distance.  As  I  have  been  walking 
in  his  fields  I  have  observed  them  stealing  a  sight  of  me  over  an 
hedge,  and  have  heard  the  knight  desiring  them  not  to  let  me  see 
them,  for  that  I  hated  to  be  stared  at. 

I  am  the  more  at  ease  in  Sir  Roger's  family,  because  it  consists 

of  sober  and  staid  persons  ;  for  as  the  knight  is  the  best  master  in 

iAAL'^'^  t    ^^  world,  he  seldom  changes  his  servants  ;  and  as  he  is  beloved  by 

•     -'  /'"  all  about  him,  his  servants  never  care  for  leaving  him  :  by  this  means 

^  ^hi^  domestics  are  all  in  years,  and  grown  old  with  their  master. 

■  Tou  would  take  his  valet  de  chambre  for  his  brother,  his  butler  is 

(%Prf   gray-headed,  his  groom  is  one  of  the  gravest  men  that  I  ever  have 

<     ''    seen,   and    his    coachman    has    the   looks    of  a    privy   counsellor. 

^y  ^    ^^^  ^^^  ^^^  goodness  of  the  master  even  in  the  old  house-dog,  and 

v'   '    »    u      in  a  gray  pad  that  is  kept  in  the  stable  with  great  care  and  tenderness 

/^^//uL/'fW    out  of  regard  to  his  past  services,  though  he  has  been  useless  for 

-r",  I  could  not  but  observe  with  a  great  deal  of  pleasure  the  joy 

that  appeared  in  the  countenances  of  these  ancient  domestics  upon 

my  friend's  arrival  at  his  country-seat.     Some  of  them  could  not 

-   ,     refrain  from  tears  at  the  sight  of  their  old  master;  every  one  of  them 


JOSEPH   ADDISON.  99 

pressed  forward  to  do  something  for  him,  and  seemed  discouraged 
if  they  were  not  employed.  At  the  same  time  the  good  old  knight, 
with  a  mixture  of  the  father  and  the  master  of  the  family,  tempered 
the  inquiries  after  his  own  affairs  with  several  kind  questions  re- 
lating to  themselves.  This  humanity  and  good  nature  engages 
everybody  to  him,  so  that  when  he  is  pleasant  upon  any  of  them,  all 
his  family  are  in  good  humor,  and  none  so  much  as  the  person 
whom  he  diverts  himself  with  :  on  the  contrary,  if  he  coughs,  or 
betrays  any  infirmity  of  old  age,  it  is  easy  for  a  stander-by  to  observe 
a  secret  concern  in  the  looks  of  all  his  servants. 

My  worthy  friend  has  put  me  under  the  particular  care  of  his 
butler,  who  is  a  very  prudent  man,  and,  as  well  as  the  rest  of  his 
fellow-servants,  wonderfully  desirous  of  pleasing  me,  because  they 
have  often  heard  their  master  talk  of  me  as  of  his  particular  friend. 

My  chief  companion,  when  Sir  Roger  is  diverting  himself  in  the 
woods  or  the  fields,  is  a  very  venerable  man,  who  is  ever  with  Sir 
Roger,  and  has  lived  at  his  house  in  the  nature  of  a  chaplain  above 
thirty  years.  This  gentleman  is  a  person  of  good  sense  and  some 
learning,  of  a  very  regular  life  and  obliging  conversation  :  he  heartily 
loves  Sir  Roger,  and  knows  that  he  is  very  much  in  the  old  knight's 
esteem,  so  that  he  lives  in  the  family  rather  as  a  relation  than  a 
dependant. 

I  have  observed  in  several  of  my  papers,  that  my  friend  Sir  Roger, 
amidst  all  his  good  qualities,  is  something  of  an  humorist ;  and  that 
his  virtues,  as  well  as  imperfections,  are  as  it  were  tinged  by  a 
certain  extravagance,  which  makes  them  particularly  his,  and  dis- 
tinguishes them  from  those  of  other  men.  This  cast  of  mind,  as  it  is 
generally  very  innocent  in  itself,  so  it  renders  his  conversation  high- 
ly agreeable,  and  more  delightful  than  the  same  degree  of  sense  and 
virtue  would  appear  in  their  common  and  ordinary  colors.  As  I  was 
walking  with  him  last  night,  he  asked  me  how  I  liked  the  good  man 
whom  I  have  just  now  mentioned  ;  and  without  staying  for  mji 
answer,  told  me  that  he  was  afraid  of  being  insulted  with  Latin  and 
Greek  at  his  own  table :  for  which  reason  he  desired  a  particular 
friend  of  his  at  the  university  to  find  him  out  a  clergyman  rather  of 
plain  sense  than  much  learning,  of  a  good  aspect,  a  clear  voice,  a 
sociable  temper,  and,  if  possible,  a  man  that  understood  a  little  of 
backgammon.  My  friend,  says  Sir  Roger,  found  me  out  this  gentle- 
man, who,  besides  the  endowments  required  of  him,  is,  they  tell  me, 
a  good  scholar,  though  he  does  not  show  it.  I  have  given  him  the 
parsonage  of  the  parish  ;  and  because  I  know  his  value,  have  settled 


100  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

upon  him  a  good  annuity  for  life.  If  he  outlives  me,  he  shall  find 
that  he  was  higher  in  my  esteem  than  perhaps  he  thinks  he  is.  He 
has  now  been  with  me  thirty  years  ;  and  though  he  does  not  know  I 
have  taken  notice  of  it,  has  never  in  all  that  time  asked  anything  of 
me  for  himself,  though  he  is  every  day  soliciting  me  for  something 
in  behalf  of  one  or  other  of  my  tenants,  his  parishioners.  There  has 
not  been  a  lawsuit  in  the  parish  since  he  has  lived  among  them ; 
if  any  dispute  arises  they  apply  themselves  to  him  for  the  decision  ; 
if  they  do  not  acquiesce  in  his  judgment,  which  I  think  never  hap- 
pened above  once  or  twice  at  most,  they  appeal  to  me.  At  his  first 
settling  with  me,  I  made  him  a  present  of  all  the  good  sermons 
which  have  been  printed  in  EngHsh,  and  only  begged  of  him  that 
every  Sunday  he  would  pronounce  one  of  them  in  the  pulpit.  Ac- 
cordingly he  has  digested  them  into  such  a  series,  that  they  follow 
one  another  naturally,  and  make  a  continued  system  of  practical 
divinity. 

As  Sir  Roger  was  going  on  in  his  story,  the  gentleman  we  were 
talking  of  came  up  to  us  ;  and  upon  the  knight's  asking  him  who 
preached  to-morrow  (for  it  was  Saturday  night),  told  us,  the  Bishop 
of  St.  Asaph  in  the  morning,  and  Dr.  South  in  the  afternoon.  He 
'then  showed  us  his  list  of  preachers  for  the  whole  year,  where  I  saw, 
with  a  great  deal  of  pleasure,  Archbishop  Tillotson,  Bishop  Saunder- 
son.  Dr.  Barrow,  Dr.  Calamy,  with  several  living  authors  who  have 
pubhshed  discourses  of  practical  divinity,  *no  sooner  saw  this 
venerable  man  in  the  pulpit,  but  I  very  much  approved  of  my  friend's 
insisting  upon  the  qualifications  of  a  good  aspect  and  a  clear  voice  ; 
for  I  was  so  charmed  with  the  gracefulness  of  his  figure  and  delivery, 
as  well  as  the  discourses  he  pronounced,  that  I  think  I  never 
passed  any  time  more  to  my  satisfaction.  A  sermon  repeated  after 
this  manner,  is  like  the  composition  of  a  poet  in  the  mouth  of  a 
graceful  actor. 

I  could  heartily  wish  that  more  of  our  country  clergy  would  follow 
this  example  ;  and  instead  of  wasting  their~spirits  in  laborious  com- 
positions of  their  own,  would  endeavor  after  a  handsome  elocution, 
and  all  those  other  talents  that  are  proper  to  enforce  what  has  been 
penned  by  greater  masters.  This  would  not  only  be  more  easy  to 
themselves,  but  more  edifying  to  the  people. 


JOSEPH    ADDISGN.  '       '        '    •         lo-i 


No.  112.     Monday,  July  9,  17 1 1. 

'AdavcLTOVs  H€v  Ttpdra  deovs,  vdixo)  wj  SiaKEirai. 
Tt^2.  —  Pythag. 

First,  in  obedience  to  thy  country's  rites, 
Worship  th'  immortal  gods. 

I  AM  always  very  well  pleased  with  a  country  Sunday,  and  think 
if  keeping  holy  the  seventh  day  were  only  a  human  institution,  it 
would  be  the  best  method  that  could  have  been  thought  of  for  the 
polishing  and  civilizing  of  mankind.  It  is  certain  the  country  people 
would  soon  degenerate  into  a  kind  of  savages  and  barbarians,  were 
there  not  such  frequent  returns  of  a  stated  time,  in  which  the  whole 
village  meet  together  with  their  best  faces,  and  in  their  cleanliest 
habits,  to  converse  with  one  another  upon  indifferent  subjects,  hear 
their  duties  explained  to  them,  and  join  together  in  adoration  of  the 
Supreme  Being.  Sunday  clears  away  the  rust  of  the  whole  week, 
not  only  as  it  refreshes  in  their  minds  the  notions  of  religion,  but  as 
it  puts  both  the  sexes  upon  appearing  in  their  most  agreeable  forms, 
and  exerting  all  such  qualities  as  are  apt  to  give  them  a  figure  in 
the  eye  of  the  village.  A  country  fellow  distinguishes  himself  as 
much  in  the  churchyard  as  a  citizen  does  upon  the  'Change,  the 
whole  parish  politics  being  generally  discussed  in  that  place  either 
after  sermon  or  before  the  bell  rings. 

,  My  friend  Sir  Roger,  being  a  good  churchman,  has  beautified  the 
■  ,  •//■  'j'^side  of  his  church  with  several  texts  of  his  own  choosing.  He 
fia^  likewise  given  a  handsome  pulpif  cloth,  and  railed  in  the  com- 
munion table  at  his  own  expense.  He  has  often  told  me,  that  at 
his  coming  to  his  estate  he  found  his  parishioners  very  irregular, 
and  that  in  order  to  make  them  kneel  and  join  in  the  responses,  he 
gave  every  one  of  them  a  hassock  and  a  Common  Prayer  Book,  and 
at  the  same  time  employed  ar/ Itinerant  singing-master,  who  goes 
about  the  country  for  that  purpose,  to  instruct  them  rightly  in  the 
tunes  of  the  psalms,  upon  which  they  now  very  much  value  them- 
selves, and,  indeed,  outdo  most  of  the  country  churches  that  I  have 
ever  heard. 

As  Sir  Roger  is  landlord  to  the  whole  congregation,  he  keeps 
them  in  very  good  order,  and  will  suffer  nobody  to  sleep  in  it  besides 
himself ;  for  if  by  chance  he  has  been  surprised  into  a  short  nap  at 
sermon,  upon  recovering  out  of  it  he  stands  up  and  looks  about  him, 
and  if  he  sees  anybody  else  nodding,  either  wakes  them  himself,  or 
sends  his  servant  to  them.     Severalother  of  the  old  knight's  partic- 


:C2  IIAIiS-BOOK.   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

ularities  break  out  upon  these  occasions  :  sometimes  he  will  be 
lengthening  out  a  verse  in  the  singing  psalms  half  a  minute  after  the 
rest  of  the  congregation  have  clone  with  it ;  sometimes,  when  he  is 
pleased  with  the  matter  of  his  devotion,  he  pronounces  "  Amen  " 
three  or  four  times  to  the  same  prayer,  and  sometimes  stands  up 
when  everybody  else  is  upon  their  knees,  to  count  the  congregation, 
or  see  if  any  of  his  tenants  are  missing. 

I  was  yesterday  very  much  surprised  to  hear  my  old  friend,  in  the 
midst  of  the  service,  calling  out  to  one  John  Matthews  to  mind  what 
he  was  about,  and  not  disturb  the  congregation.  This  John  Mat- 
thews, it  seems,  is  remarkable  for  being  an  idle  fellow,  and  at  that 
time  was  kicking  his  heels  for  his  diversion.  This  authority  of  the 
knight,  though  exerted  in  that  odd  manner  which  accompanies  him 
in  all  circumstances  of  life,  has  a  very  good  effect  upon  the  parish, 
who  are  not  polite  enough  to  see  anything  ridiculous  in  his  behavior  ; 
besides  that  the  general  good  sense  and  worthiness  of  his  character 
makes  his  friends  observe  these  little  singularities  as  foils  that  rather 
set  off  than  blemish  his  good  quahties. 

As  soon  as  the  sermon  is  finished,  nobody  presumes  to  stir  till  Sir 
Roger  is  gone  out  of  the  church.  The  knight  walks  down  from  his 
seat  in  the  chancel  between  a  double  row  of  his  tenants,  that  stand 
bowing  to  him  on  each  side,  and  every  now  and  then  inquires  how 
such  an  one's  wife,  or  mother,  or  son,  or  father  do,  whom  he  does 
not  see  at  church  —  which  is  understood  as  a  secret  reprimand  to  the 
person  that  is  absent. 

The  chaplain  has  often  tolcfme  that  upon  a  catechising  day,  when 
Sir  Roger  has  been  pleased  with  a  boy  that  answers  well,  he  has  or- 
dered a  Bible  to  be  given  him  next  day  for  his  encouragement,  and 
sometimes  accompanies  it  with  a  flitch  of  bacon  to  his  mother.  Sir 
Roger  has  likewise  added  five  pounds  a  year  to  the  clerk's  place, 
and  that  he  may  encourage  the  young  fellows  to  make  themselves 
perfect  in  the  church  service,  has  promised  upon  the  death  of  the 
present  incumbent,  who  is  very  old,  to  bestow  it  according  to  merit. 

The  fair  understanding  between  Sir  Roger  and  his  chaplain,  and 
their  mutual  concurrence  in  doing  good,  is  the  more  remarkable,  be- 
cause the  very  next  village  is  famous  for  the  differences  and  conten- 
tions that  rise  between  the  parson  and  the  squire,  who  live  in  a  per- 
petual state  of  war.  The  parson  is  always  preaching  at  the  squire, 
and  the  s.quire,  to  be  revenged  on  the  parson,  never  comes  to  church. 
The  squire  has  made  all  his  tenants  atheists  and  tithe-stealers,  while 
the  parson  instructs  them  every  Sunday  in  the  dignity  of  his  order, 


'    ^ajOSEPH    ADDISON.  10  J 

and  insinuates  to  them,  in  almost  every  sermon,  that  he  is  a  better 
man  than  his  patron.  In  short,  matters  are  come  to  such  an  ex- 
tremity, that  the  squire  has  not  said  his  prayers  either  in  pubHc 
or  private  this  half  year,  and  that  the  parson  threatens  him,  if  he 
does  not  mend  his  manners,  to  pray  for  him  in  the  face  of  the  whole 
congregation. 

Feuds  of  this  nature,  though  too  frequent  in  the  country,  are  very 
fatal  to  the  ordinary  people,  who  are  so  used  to  be  dazzled  with 
riches,  that  they  pay  as  much  deference  to  the  understanding  of  a 
man  of  an  estate,  as  of  a  man  of  learning  ;  and  are  very  hardly  brought 
to  regard  any  truth,  how  important  soever  it  may  be,  that  is  preached 
to  them,  when  they  know  there  are  several  men  of  five  hundred  a 
year  who  do  not  believe  it. 


No.  157.     Thursday,  August  30,  171 1. 

Geiiius  natale  comes  qui  temperat  astrum 

Naturae  Deus  humanas  mortalis  in  unum 

Quodque  caput.  — Hor.,  Epist.  II.  2,  187. 

Imitated. 
That  directing  power, 
^/J    A     VtA^    A/iTO-^  Who  forms  the  genius  in  the  natal  hour ; 
"  '^^^ ^     J  J  That  God  of  nature,  who,  within  us  still 

{j{/l/il^t-(^A/  Inclines  our  action,  not  constrains  our  will.  — Pope. 

,fj/ Af'i^^^^AM.  very  rnuch  at  a  loss  to  express  by  any  word  that  occurs  to  ,\ 

M^t^/  "^e  in  our  language  that  which  is  understood  by  Indoles  in  Latin. 

The  natural  disposition  to  any  particular  art,  science,  profession,  or 

trade,  is  very  much  to  be  consulted  in  the  care  of  youth,  and  studied 

by  men  for  their  own  conduct  when  they  form  to  themselves  any 

^♦^'^/  scheme  of  life.     It  is  wonderfully  hard  indeed  for  a  man  to  judge  of 

-  /^^j^  his  own  capacity  impartially  ;  that  may  look  great  to  me  which  may 

Iwj^  'appear  httle  to  another,  and  I  may  be  carried  by  fondness  towards 

Ul'  myself  so  far,  as  to  attempt  things  too  high  for  my  talents  and  ac- 

Jl/iJU     complishments  ;  but  it  is  not,  methinks,  so  very  difficult  a  matter  to 

,^^,^vv^'^ake  a  judgment  of  the  abilities  of  others,  especially  of  those  who 

are  in  their  infancy.     My  commonplace  book  directs  me  on  this  oc- 

casion  to  mention  the  dawning  of  greatness  in  Alexander,  who  being 

asked  in  his  youth  to  contend  for  a  prize  in  the  Olympic  games,  an- 

■    j^^.j  swered  he  would,  if  he  had  kings  to  run  against  him.  -^XTassius,  who 

t«r  (^.,was  one  of  the  conspirators  against  Caesar,  gave  as  great  a  proof  of 

^^     his. temper,  when  in  his  childhood  he  struck  a  play-fellow,  the  son 

of  Sylla,  for  saying  his  father  was  master  of  the  Roman  people. 


t 


^''■f      104  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    LITEITATURE. 

:  /'vv^^>«^«^<^>^cipio  is  reported  to  have  answered  (when  some  flatterers  at  supper 
\  La  y  ■^  c''^'  were  asking  him  what  the  Romans  should  do  for  a  general  after  his 
/.^^death),  Take'^arius.    Marius  was  then  a  very  boy,  and  had  given  no 
^  ^  K^^^i^stances  of  his  valor  ;  but  it  was  visible  to  Scipio  from  the  manners 
of  the  youth,  that  he  had  a  soul  formed  for  the  attempt  and  ex- 
'^Ution  of  great  undertakings.     I  must  confess  I  have  very  often 
•Mth  much  sorrow  bewailed  the  misfortune  of  the  children  of  Greaf 
A    '       .Britain,  when  I  consider  the  ignorance  and  undiscerning  of  the  gen- 
tA^tdU*^:  erahty  of  schoolmasters.     The  boasted  liberty  we  talk  of  is  but  j 
'  ^  '^mean  reward  for  the  long  servitude,  the  many  heartaches  and  terrors, 
\j;^     to  which  our  childhood   is  exposed  in  going  through  a  grammal 
\j^'t<^-^  '    school ;  many  of  these  stupid  tyrants  exercise  their  cruelty  without 
C\      /   '  .  ^     any  manner  of  distinction  of  the  capacities  of  children,  or  the  inten- 
A      "   \       tion  of  parents  in  their  behalf     There  are  many  excellent  tempers 
which  are  worthy  to  be  nourished  and  cultivated  with  all  possible 
;  '      dihgence  and  care,  that  were  never  designed  to  be  acquainted  with 
viM^-^    V       Ati^totle,  Tully,  or  Virgil ;  and  there  are  as  many  who  have  capacities 
^^j^  ^\^.         for  understanding  every  word  those  great  persons  have  writ,  and  yet 
^y  /i  Cir^~   '  w^'*^  ^^^  born  to  have  any  rehsh  of  their  writings.     For  want  of  this 
■^     '  common  and  obvious   discerning  in  those  who  have   the  care  of 

youth,  we  have  so  many  hundred  unaccountable  creatures  every  age 
whipped  up  into  great  scholars,  that  are  forever  near  a  right  under- 
standing, and  will  never  arrive  at  it.  These  are  the  scandal  of 
letters,  and  these  are  generally  the  men  who  are  to  teach  others. 
The  sense  of  shame  and  honor  is  enough  to  keep  the  world  itself  in 
order  without  corporal  punishment,  much  more  to  train  the  minds  of 
uncorrupted  and  innocent  children.  It  happens,  I  doubt  not,  more 
than  once  in  a  year,  that  a  lad  is  chastised  for  a  blockhead,  when  it 
is  good  apprehension  that  makes  him  incapable  of  knowing  what  his 
teacher  means  :  a  brisk  imagination  very  often  may  suggest  an  error, 
which  a  lad  could  not  have  fallen  into,  if  he  had  been  as  heavy  in 
conjecturing  as  his  master  in  explaining  ;  but  there  is  no  mercy  even 
towards  a  wrong  interpretation  of  his  meaning  ;  the  sufferings  of  the 
scholar's  body  are  to  rectify  the  mistakes  of  his  mind. 

I  am  confident  that  no  boy  who  will  not  be  allured  to  letters  with- 
out blows,  will  ever  be  brought  to  anything  with  them.  A  great  or 
good  mind  must  necessarily  be  the  worse  for  such  indignities  ;  and 
it  is  a  sad  change  to  lose  of  its  virtue  for  the  improvement  of  its 
knowledge.  No  one  who  has  gone  through  what  they  call  a  great 
school  but  must  remember  to  have  seen  children  of  excellent  and 
ingenuous  natures  (as  has  afterwards  appeared  in  their  manhood),  I 
say  no  man  has  passed  through  this  way  of  education  but  must 


JOSEPH   ADDISON.  I05 

have  seen  an  ingenuous  creature  expiring  with  shame,  with  pale 
looks,  beseeching  sorrow,  and  silent  tears,  throw  up  its  honest  eyes, 
and  kneel  on  its  tender  knees  to  an  inexorable  blockhead,  to  be  for- 
given the  false  quantity  of  a  word  in  making  a  Latin  verse  :  the  child 
:s  punished,  and  the  next  day  he  commits  a  like  crime,  and  so  a 
third  with  the  same  consequence.  I  would  fain  ask  any  reasonable 
man  whether  this  lad,  in  the  simpHcity  of  his  native  innocence,  full 
of  shame,  and  capable  of  any  impression  from  that  grace  of  soul,  was 
not  fitter  for  any  purpose  in  this  life,  than  after  that  spark  of  virtue 
is  extinguished  in  him,  though  he  is  able  to  write  twenty  verses  in 
an  evening. 

Seneca  says,  after  his  exalted  way  of  talking,  "  As  the  immortal 
gods  never  learnt  any  virtue,  though  they  are  endowed  with  all  that 
is  good,  so  there  are  some  men  who  have  so  natural  a  propensity  to 
what  they  should  follow,  that  they  learn  it  almost  as  soon  as  they 
hear  it."  Plants  and  vegetables  are  cultivated  into  the  production 
of  finer  fruit  than  they  would  yield  without  that  care  ;  and  yet  we 
cannot  entertain  hopes  of  producing  a  tender  conscious  spi^rit  into 
acts  of  virtue,  without  the  same  methods  as  is  used  to  cut  timber,  01 
give  new  shape  to  a  piece  of  stone. 

It  is  wholly  to  this  dreadful  practice  that  we  may  attribute  a  cer- 
tain hardiness  and  ferocity  which  some  men,  though  liberally  educated, 
carry  about  them  in  all  their  behavior.  To  be  bred  like  a  gentle- 
man, and  punished  like  a  malefactor,  must,  as  we  see  it  does,  pro- 
duce that  illiberal  sauciness  which  we  see  sometimes  in  men 
of  letters. 

The  Spartan  boy  who  suiTered  the  fox  (which  he  had  stolen  and 
hid  "under  his  coat)  to  eat  into  his  bowels,  I  dare  say  had  not  half  the 
wit  or  petulance  which  we  learn  at  great  schools  among  us  ;  but  the 
glorious  sense  of  honor,  or  rather  fear  of  shame,  which  he  demon- 
strated in  that  action,  was  worth  all  the  learning  in  the  world 
without  it. 

It  is,  methinksj  a  very  melancholy  consideration,  that  a  little 
negligence  can  spoil  us,  but  great  industry  is  necessary  to  improve 
us  ;  the  most  excellent  natures  are  soon  depreciated,  but  evil  tem- 
pers are  long  before  they  are  exalted  into  good  habits.  To  help  this 
by  punishments,  is  the  same  thing  as  killing  a  man  to  cure  him  of  a 
distemper  ;  when  he  comes  to  suifer  punishment  in  that  one  cir- 
cumstance, he  is  brought  below  the  existence  of  a  rational  creature, 
and  is  in  the  state  of  a  brute  that  moves  only  by  the  admonition  of 
stripes.  But  since  this  custom  of  educating  by  the  lash  is  suffered 
by  the  gentry  of  Great   Britain,  I  would  prevail  only  that  honest, 


Io6  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    LITERATURE, 

heavy  lads  may  be  dismissed  from  slavery  sooner  than  they  are  at 
present,  and  not  whipped  on  to  their  fourteenth  or  fifteenth  year, 
whether  they  expect  any  progress  from  them  or  not.  Let  the  child's 
capacity  be  forthwith  examined  and  [he]  sent  to  some  mechanic  way 
of  life,  without  respect  to  his  birth,  if  nature  designed  him  for 
nothing  higher :  let  him  go  before  he  has  innocently  suffered,  and  is 
<tebased  into  a  dereliction  of  mind  for  being  what  it  is  no  guilt  to 
be  —  a  plain  man.  I  would  not  here  be  supposed  to  have  said,  that 
our  learned  men  of  either  robe  who  have  been  whipped  at  school, 
are  not  still  men  of  noble  and  liberal  minds  ;  but  I  am  sure  they  had 
been  much  more  so  than  they  are,  had  they  never  suffered  that 
infamy. 


No.  159.     Saturday,  September  i,  1711. 

Omnem  quae  nunc  obducta  tuenti 
Mortales  hebetat  visus  tibi,  et  humida  circum 
Caligatj  nubem  eripiam.  — Virg.,  iEn.  II.  604. 

The  cloud  which,  intercepting  the  clear  light, 
Hangs  o'er  thy  eyes,  and  blunts  thy  mortal  sight, 
I  will  remove. 

When  I  was  at  Grand  Cairo,  I  picked  up  several  Oriental  manu- 
scripts, which  I  have  still  by  me.  Among  others  I  met  with  one, 
entitled  The  Visions  of  Mirza,  which  I  have  read  over  with  great 
pleasure.  I  intend  to  give  it  to  the  public  when  I  have  no  other 
entertainment  for  them ;  and  shall  begin  with  the  first  vision,  which 
I  have  translated,  word  for  word,  as  follows  :  — 

"  On  the  fifth  day  of  the  moon,  which,  according  to  the  custom 
of  my  forefathers,  I  always  keep  holy,  after  having  washed  myself, 
and  offered  up  my  morning  devotions,  I  ascended  the  high  hills  of 
Bagdat,  in  order  to  pass  the  rest  of  the  day  in  meditation  and  prayer. 
As  I  was  here  airing  myself  on  the  tops  of  the  mountains,  I  fell  into 
a  profound  contemplation  on  the  vanity  of  human  life  ;  and,  passing 
from  one  thought  to  another,  '  Surely,'  said  I,  'man  is  but  a  shadow, 
and  life  a  dream.'  Whilst  I  was  thus  musing,  I  cast  my  eyes  towards 
the  summit  of  a  rock  that  was  not  far  from  me,  where  I  discovered 
one  in  the  habit  of  a  shepherd,  with  a  little  musical  instrument  in 
his  hand.  As  I  looked  upon  him  he  apphed  it  to  his  lips,  and  began 
to  play  upon  it.  The  sound  of  it  was  exceeding  sweet,  and  wrought 
into  a  variety  of  tunes  that  were  inexpressibly  melodious,  and  alto- 
gether different  from  anything  I  had  ever  heard  :  they  put  me  in 
mind  of  those  heavenly  airs  that  are  played  to  the  departed  souls  of 


JOSEPH    ADDISON.  IC7 

good  men  upon  their  first  arrival  in  paradise,  to  wear  out  the  impres- 
sions of  the  last  agonies,  and  qualify  them  for  the  pleasures  of  that 
happy  place.     My  heart  melted  away  in  secret  raptures. 

"  I  had  been  often  told  that  the  rock  before  me  was  the  haunt  of 
a  genius  ;  and  that  several  had  been  entertained  with  music  who  had 
passed  by  it,  but  never  heard  that  the  musician  had  before  made 
himself  visible.  When  he  had  raised  my  thoughts  by  those  trans- 
porting airs  which  he  played,  to  taste  the  pleasures  of  his  conversa- 
tion, as  I  looked  upon  him  like  one  astonished,  he  beckoned  to  me, 
and  by  the  waving  of  his  hand  directed  me  to  approach  the  place 
where  he  sat.  I  drew  near  with  that  reverence  which  is  due  to  a 
superior  nature  ;  and,  as  my  heart  was  entirely  subdued  by  the  cap- 
tivating strains  I  had  heard,  I  fell  down  at  his  feet  and  wept.  The 
genius  smiled  upon  me  with  a  look  of  compassion  and  affability  that 
familiarized  him  to  my  imagination,  and  at  once  dispelled  all  the 
fears  and  apprehensions  with  which  I  approached  him.  He  hfted 
me  from  the  ground,  and  taking  me  by  the  hand,  'Mirza,'  said  he, 
'  I  have  heard  thee  in  thy  soliloquies  ;  follow  me.' 

"  He  then  led  me  to  the  highest  pinnacle  of  the  rock,  and  placing 
me  on  the  top  of  it,  '  Cast  thy  eyes  eastward,'  said  he,  '  and  tell  me 
what  thou  seest'  '  I  see,'  said  I,  'a  huge  valley,  and  a  prodigious 
tide  of  water  rolhng  through  it.'  '  The  valley  that  thou  seest,'  said 
he,  '  is  the  Vale  of  Misery,  and  the  tide  of  water  that  thou  seest  is 
part  of  the  great  tide  of  Eternity.'  '  What  is  the  reason,'  said  I, 
'  that  the  tide  I  see  rises  out  of  a  thick  mist  at  one  end,  and  again 
loses  itself  in  a  thick  mist  at  the  other  ? '  '  What  thou  seest,'  said 
he,  '  is  that  portion  of  Eternity  which  is  called  Time,  measured  out 
by  the  sun,  and  reaching  from  the  beginning  of  the  world  to  its  con- 
summation. Examine  now,'  said  he,  '  this  sea  that  is  bounded  with 
darkness  at  both  ends,  and  tell  me  what  thou  discoverest  in  it'  '  I 
see  a  bridge,'  said  I,  '  standing  in  the  midst  of  the  tide.'  '  The  bridge 
thou  seest,'  said  he,  '  is  human  life  ;  consider  it  attentively.'  Upon 
a  more  leisurely  survey  of  it,  I  found  that  it  consisted  of  threescore 
and  ten  entire  arches,  with  several  broken  arches,  which,  added  to 
those  that  were  entire,  made  up  the  number  about  an  hundred.  As 
I  was  counting  the  arches,  the  genius  told  me  that  this  bridge  con- 
sisted at  first  of  a  thousand  arches  ;  but  that  a  great  flood  swept 
away  the  rest,  and  left  the  bridge  in  the  ruinous  condition  I  now  be- 
held it.  '  But  tell  me  further,'  said  he,  '  what  thou  discoverest  on  it.' 
'I  see  multitudes  of  people  passing  over  it,'  said  I,  'and  a  black 
cloud  hanging  on  each  end  of  it.'     As  I  looked  more  attentively,  I 


I08  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

saw  several  of  the  passengers  dropping  through  the  bridge,  into  the 
great  tide  that  flowed  underneath  it ;  and,  upon  further  examination, 
perceived  there  were  innumerable  trap-doors  that  lay  concealed  in 
the  bridge,  which  the  passengers  no  sooner  trod  upon,  but  they  fell 
through  them  into  the  tide,  and  immediately  disappeared.  These 
hidden  pitfalls  were  set  very  thick  at  the  entrance  of  the  bridge,  so 
that  the  throngs  of  people  no  sooner  broke  through  the  cloud,  but 
many  of  them  fell  into  them.  They  grew  thinner  towards  the  mid- 
dle, but  multiplied  and  lay  closer  together  towards  the  end  of  the 
arches  that  were  entire. 

"  There  were  indeed  some  persons,  but  their  number  was  very 
small,  that  continued  a  kind  of  hobbling  march  on  the  broken 
arches,  but  fell  through  one  after  another,  being  quite  tired  and 
spent  with  so  long  a  walk. 

"  I  passed  some  time  in  the  contemplaCtion  of  this  wonderful 
structure,  and  the  great  variety  of  objects  which  it  presented.  My 
heart  was  filled  with  a  deep  melancholy  to  see  several  dropping  un- 
expectedly in  the  midst  of  mirth  and  jollity,  and  catching  at  every- 
thing that  stood  by  them  to  save  themselves.  Some  were  looking 
up  towards  the  heavens  in  a  thoughtful  posture,  and  in  the  midst  of 
a  speculation  stumbled  and  fell  out  of  sight.  Multitudes  were  very 
busy  in  the  pursuit  of  bubbles  that  glittered  in  their  eyes  and  danced 
before  them  ;  but  often,  when  they  thought  themselves  within  the 
reach  of  them,  their  footing  failed,  and  down  they  sunk.  In  this 
confusion  of  objects,  I  observed  some  with  scymetars  in  their  hands, 
who  ran  to  and  fro  upon  the  bridge,  thrusting  several  persons  on 
trap-doors  which  did  not  seem  to  lie  in  their  way,  and  which  they 
might  have  escaped  had  they  not  been  forced  upon  them. 

"  The  genius,  seeing  me  indulge  myself  in  this  melancholy  pros- 
pect, told  me  I  had  dwelt  long  enough  upon  it.  'Take  thine 
eyes  off  the  bridge,'  said  he,  'and  tell  me  if  thou  yet  seest  anything 
thou  dost  not  comprehend.'  Upon  looking  up,  '  What  mean,'  said 
I,  'those  great  flights  of  birds  that  are  perpetually  hovering  about 
the  bridge,  and  settling  upon  it  from  time  to  time  ?  I  see  vultures, 
harpyes,  ravens,  cormorants,  and,  among  many  other  feathered 
creatures,  several  little  winged  boys,  that  perch  in  great  numbers 
upon  the  middle  arches.'  'These,'  said  the  genius,  'are  envy; 
avarice,  superstition,  despair,  love,  with  the  like  cares  and  passions 
that  infest  human  life.' 

"  I  here  fetched  a  deep  sigh.  '  Alas,'  said  I,  '  man  was  made  in 
vain  !     How  is  he  given  away  to  misery  and  mortality  !  tortured  in 


JOSEPH   ADDISON.  I09 

life,  and  swallowed  up  in  death  ! '  The  genius,  being  moved  with 
compassion  towards^  me,  bid  me  quit  so  uncomfortable  a  pros- 
pect. '  Look  no  more,'  said  he,  '  on  man  in  the  first  stage  of  his 
existence,  in  his  setting  out  for  eternity ;  but  cast  thine  eye  on 
that  thick  mist  into  which  the  tide  bears  the  several  generations  of 
mortals  that  fall  into  it.'  I  directed  my  sight  as  I  was  ordered,  and 
(whether  or  no  the  good  genius  strengthened  it  with  any  supernat- 
ural force,  or  dissipated  part  of  the  mist  that  was  before  too  thick 
for  the  eye  to  penetrate)  I  saw  the  valley. opening  at  the  farther  end, 
and  spreading  forth  into  an  immense  ocean,  that  had  a  huge  rock 
of  adamant  running  through  the  midst  of  it,  and  dividing  it  into  two 
equal  parts.  The  clouds  still  rested  on  one  half  of  it,  insomuch 
that  I  could  discover  nothing  in  it :  but  the  other  appeared  to  me  a 
vast  ocean  planted  with  innumerable  islands,  that  were  covered  with 
fruits  and  flowers,  and  interwoven  with  a  thousand  little  shining 
seas  that  ran  among  them.  I  could  see  persons  dressed  in  glorious 
habits,  with  garlands  upon  their  heads,  passing  among  the  trees, 
lying  down  by  the  side  of  fountains,  or  resting  on  beds  of  flowers  ; 
and  could  hear  a  confused  harmony  of  singing  birds,  falling  waters, 
human  voices,  and  musical  instruments.  Gladness  grew  in  me  upon 
the  discovery  of  so  delightful  a  scene.  I  wished  for  the  wings  of 
an  eagle,  that  I  might  fly  away  to  those  happy  seats  ;  but  the  genius 
told  me  there  was  no  passage  to  them,  except  through  the  gates  of 
death,  that  I  saw  opening  every  moment  upon  the  bridge.  'The 
islands,'  said  he,  '  that  lie  so  fresh  and  green  before  thee,  and  with 
which  the  whole  face  of  the  ocean  appears  spotted  as  far  as  thou 
canst  see,  are  more  in  number  than  the  sands  on  the  sea-shore  ; 
there  are  myriads  of  islands  behind  those  which  thou  here  discover- 
est,  reaching  farther  than  thine  eye,  or  even  thine  imagination  can 
extend  itself  These  are  the  mansions  of  good  men  after  death, 
who,  according  to  the  degree  and  kinds  of  virtue  in  which  they  ex- 
celled, are  distributed  among  these  several  islands,  which  abound 
with  pleasures  of  different  kinds  and  degrees,  suitable  to  the  rel- 
ishes and  perfections  of  those  who  are  settled  in  them  ;  every  island 
is  a  paradise  accommodated  to  its  respective  inhabitants.  Are  not 
these,  O  Mirza,  habitations  worth  contending  for  }  Does  life  ap- 
pear miserable,  that  gives  t)iee  opportunities  of  earning  such  a 
reward  ?  Is  death  to  be  feared,  that  will  convey  thee  to  so  happy 
an  existence  ?  Think  not  man  was  made  in  vain,  who  has  such  an 
eternity  reserved  for  him.'  I  gazed  with  inexpressible  pleasure  on 
these  happy  islands.      At  length,  said  I,  '  Show  me  now,  I  beseech 


V 


^  ^ 

\ 


no  HAIJJD-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 


N 


^^ 


^  thee,  the  secrets  that  lie  hid  under  those  dark  clouds  which  cover 
the  ocean  on  the  other  side  of  the  rock  of  adamant.'  The  genius 
making  me  no  answer,  I  turned  about  to  address  myself  to  him  a 
second  time,  but  I  found  that  he  had  left  me  :  I  then  turned  again 
to  the  vision  which  I  had  been  so  long  contemplating ;  but,  instead 

j^  of  the  rolling  tide,  the  arched  bridge,  and  the  happy  islands,  I  saw 
nothing  but  the  long  hollow  valley  of  Bagdat,  with  oxen,  sheep,  and 
camels  grazing  upon  the  sides  of  it." 

The  end  of  the  first  vision  of  Mirza. 


No.  499.     Thursday,  October  2,  17 12. 

Nimis  uncis 
Naribus  indulges.  —  Pers.,  Sat.  I.  40. 

—  You  drive  the  jest  too  far.  —  Dryden. 

,  .        My  friend  Will.  Honeycomb  has  told  me,  for  above  this  half  year, 

/   .a)  /f/[tt\M^i^^^^  he  had  a  great  mind  to  try  his  hand  at  a  Spectator,  and  that  he 
^^,     .     p  would  fain  have  one  of  his  writing  in  my  works.     This  morning  I 
'■-^    *^  received  from  him  the  following  letter,  which,  after  having  rectified 


/.         I  AZ » '  — ' o 

/     '  {  V  i  y  ''^some  little  orthographical  mistakes,  I  shall  make  a  present  of  to  the 


i^. 


i^A^       Dear  Spec.  :  I  was,  about  two  nights  ago,  in  company  with  very 
\  agreeable  young  people  of  both  sexes,  where  talking  of  some   of 

■  '*'•  ^'\  ypur  papers  which  are  written  on  conjugal  love,  there  arose  a  dis- 
<t  kU^v  \ylV'  '^ute  among  us,  whether  there  were  not  more  bad  husbands  in  the 
world  than  bad  wives.  A  gentleman,  who  was  advocate  for  the 
ladies,  took  this  occasion  to  tell  us  the  story  of  a  famous  siege  in 
Germany,  which  I  have  since  found  related  in  my  historical  dic- 
tionary, after  the  following  manner  :  When  the  Emperor  Conrade 
the  Third  had  besieged  Guelphus,  Duke  of  Bavaria,  in  the  city  of 
Hensberg,  the  women,  finding  that  the  town  could  not  possibly  hold 
out  long,  petitioned  the  emperor  that  they  might  depart  out  of  it, 
with  so  much  as  each  of  them  could  carry.  The  emperor,  knowing 
they  could  not  convey  away  many  of  their  effects,  granted  them  their 
petition,  when  the  women,  to  his  great  surprise,  came  out  of  the 
place  with  every  one  her  husband  upon  her  back.  The  emperor  was 
so  moved  at  the  sight,  that  he  burst  into  tears,  and  after  having  very 
much  extolled  the  women  for  their  conjugal  affection,  gave  the  men 
to  their  wives,  and  received  the  duke  into  his  favor. 

The  ladies  did  not  a  little  triumph  at  this  story,  asking  us,  at  the 


JOSEPH   ADDISON.  Ill 

same  time,  whether  in  our  consciences  we  believed  that  the  men  of 
any  town  in  Great  Britain  would,  upon  the  same  offer,  and  at  the 
same  conjuncture,  Mave  loaden  themselves  with  their  wives,  or,  rather, 
whether  they  would  not  have  been  glad  of  such  an  opportunity  to 
get  rid  of  them  ?  To  this  my  very  good  friend  Tom  Dapperwit,  who 
took  upon  him  to  be  the  mouth  of  our  sex,  replied,  that  they  would 
be  very  much  to  blame  if  they  would  not  do  the  same  good  office  for 
the  women,  considering  that  their  strength  would  be  greater,  and 
their  burdens  lighter.  As  we  were  amusing  ourselves  with  dis- 
courses of  this  nature,  in  order  to  pass  away  the  evening,  which  now 
begins  to  grow  tedious,  we  fell  into  that  laudable  and  primitive 
diversion  of  Questions  and  Commands.  I  was  no  sooner  vested  with 
the  regal  authority,  but  I  enjoined  all  the  ladies,  under  pain  of  my 
displeasure,  to  tell  the  company  ingenuously,  in  case  they  had  been 
in  the  siege  above  mentioned,  and  had  the  same  offers  made  them  as 
the  good  women  of  that  place,  what  every  one  of  them  would  have 
brought  off  with  her,  and  have  thought  most  worth  the  saving? 
There  were  several  merry  answers  made  to  my  question,  which  en- 
tertained us  till  bed-time.  This  filled  my  mind  with  such  a  huddle 
of  ideas,  that,  upon  my  going  to  sleep,  I  fell  into  the  following 
dream  :  — 

I  saw  a  town  of  this  island,  which  shall  be  nameless,  invested  on 
every  side,  and  the  inhabitants  of  it  so  straitened  as  to  cry  for  quar- 
ter. The  general  refused  any  other  terms  than  those  granted  to  the 
above-mentioned  town  of  Hensberg,  namely,  that  the  married  women 
might  come  out  with  what  they  could  bring  along  with  them.  Imme- 
diately the  city  gates  flew  open,  and  a  female  procession  appeared, 
multitudes  of  the  sex  following  one  another  in  a  row,  and  staggering 
under  their  respective  burdens.  I  took  my  stand  upon  an  eminence 
in  the  enemy's  camp,  which  was  appointed  for  the  general  rendezvous 
of  these  female  carriers,  being  very  desirous  to  look  into  their  sev- 
eral ladings.  The  first  of  them  had  a  huge  sack  upon  her  shoulders, 
which  she  set  down  with  great  care.  Upon  the  opening  of  it,  when 
I  expected  to  have  seen  her  husband  shot  out  of  it,  I  found  it  was 
filled  with  China  ware.  The  next  appeared  in  a  more  decent  figure, 
carrying  a  handsome  young  fellow  upon  her  back.  I  could  not  for- 
bear commending  the  young  woman  for  her  conjugal  affection,  when, 
to  my  great  surprise,  I  found  that  she  had  left  the  good  man  at  home, 
and  brought  away  her  gallant.  I  saw  the  third,  at  some  distance, 
with  a  little  withered  face  peeping  over  her  shoulder,  whom  I  could 
not  suspect  for  any  but  her  spouse,  till,  upon  her  setting  him  down, 


112  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

1  heard  her  call  him  dear  pug,  and  found  him  to  be  her  favorite 
monkey.  A  fourth  brought  a  huge  bale  of  cards  along  with  her  ; 
and  the  fifth  a  Bolonia  lap-dog  ;  for  her  husbancf,  it  seems,  being  a 
very  burly  man,  she  thought  it  would  be  less  trouble  for  her  to  bring 
away  little  Cupid.  The  next  was  the  wife  of  a  rich  usurer,  loaden 
witi;  a  bag  of  gold.  She  told  us  that  her  spouse  was  very  old,  and 
by  the  course  of  nature  could  not  expect  to  live  long,  and  that,  to 
?how  her  tender  regards  for  him,  she  had  saved  that  which  the  poor 
man  loved  better  than  his  life.  The  next  came  towards  us  with  her 
ftOn  upon  her  back,  who,  we  were  told,  was  the  greatest  rake  in  the 
place,  but  so  much  tne  mother's  darling,  that  she  left  her  husband 
behind,  with  a  large  family  or  hopeful  sons  and  daughters,  for  the 
sake  of  this  graceless  youth. 

It  would  be  endless  to  mention  the  several  persons,  with  their 
several  loads,  that  appeared  to  me  ;n  this  strange  vision.  All  the 
place  about  me  was  covered  with  packs  of  ribbons,  brocades,  em- 
broidery, and  ten  thousand  other  materials,  sufficient  to  have  fur- 
nished a  whole  street  of  toy-shops.  One  of  the  women,  having  a 
husband  who  was  none  of  the  heaviest,  was  bringing  him  off  upon 
her  shoulders,  at  the  same  time  that  she  carried  a  grear  btindle  of 
Flanders  lace  under  her  arm  ;  but  finding  herself  so  overloaden  that 
she  could  not  save  both  of  them,  she  dropped  the  good  man,  iind 
brought  away  the  bundle.  In  short,  I  found  but  one  husband  among 
this  great  mountain  of  baggage,  who  was  a  lively  cobbler,  that  kicked 
and  spurred  all  the  while  his  wife  was  carrying  him  on,  and,  as  it 
was  said,  had  scarce  passed  a  day  in  his  life  without  giving  her  the 
discipline  of  the  strap. 

I  cannot  conclude  my  letter,  dear  Spec,  without  telling  thee  one 
very  odd  whim  in  this  my  dream.  I  saw,  methoughts,  a  dozen  wo- 
men employed  in  bringing  off  one  man.  I  could  not  guess  who  it 
shpuld  be,  till,  upon  his  nearer  approach,  I  discovered  thy  short  phiz. 
The  women  all  declared  that  it  was  for  the  sake  of  thy  works,  and 
not  thy  person,  that  they  brought  thee  off,  and  that  it  was  on  condi- 
tion that  thou  shouldst  continue  the  Spectator.  If  thou  thinkesi 
this  dream  will  make  a  tolerable  one,  it  is  at  thy  service,  from. 
Dear  Spec,  thine,  sleeping  and  waking, 

Will.  Honeycomb. 

The  ladies  will  see,  by  this  letter,  what  I  have  often  told  them,  that 
Will,  is  one  of  those  old-fashioned  men  of  wit  and  pleasure  of  the 
town,  that  shews  his  parts  by  raillery  on  marriage,  and  one  who  has 


JOSEPH    ADDISON.  II3 

often  tried  his  fortune  that  way  without  success.  I  cannot,  however, 
dismiss  his  letter  without  observing  that  the  true  story  on  which  it 
is  built  does  honor  to  the  sex,  and  that,  in  order  to  abuse  them,  the 
writer  is  oblisred  to  have  recourse  to  dream  and  fiction. 


'&' 


No.  517.     Thursday,  October  23,  1 712. 

Heu  pietas !  heu  prisca  fides  1  —  Virg.,  ^En.  VI.  878. 

Mirror  of  ancient  faith  !  — 

Undaunted  worth  !  inviolable  truth  !  —  Dryden. 

We  last  night  received  a  piece  of  ill  news  at  our  club,  which  very 
sensibly  afflicted  every  one  of  us.  I  question  not  but  my  readers 
themselves  will  be  troubled  at  the  hearing  of  it.  To  keep  them  no 
longer  in  suspense,  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley  is  dead.  He  departed  this 
life  at  his  house  in  the  country,  after  a  few  weeks'  sickness.  Sir 
Andrew  Freeport  has  a  letter  from  one  of  his  correspondents  in 
those  parts,  that  informs  him  the  old  man  caught  a  cold  at  the 
county  sessions,  as  he  was  very  warmly  promoting  an  address  of 
his  own  penning,  in  which  he  succeeded  according  to  his  wishes. 
But  this  particular  comes  from  a  Whig  justice  of  peace,  who  was 
always  Sir  Roger's  enemy  and  antagonist.  I  have  letters  both  from 
the  chaplain  and  Captain  Sentry  which  mention  nothing  of  it,  but 
are  filled  with  many  particulars  to  the  honor  of  the  good  old  man. 
I  have  likewise  a  letter  from  the  butler,  who  took  so  much  care  of 
me  last  summer  when  I  was  at  the  knight's  house.  As  my  friend 
the  butler  mentions,  in  the  simplicity  of  his  heart,  several  circum- 
stances the  others  have  passed  over  in  silence,  I  shall  give  my 
reader  a  copy  of  his  letter,  without  any  alteration  or  diminution. 

Honored  Sir  :  Knowing  that  you  was  my  old  master's  good 
friend,  I  could  not  forbear  sending  you  the  melancholy  news  of  his 
death,  which  has  afflicted  the  whole  country,  as  well  as  his  poor 
servants,  who  loved  him,  I  may  say,  better  than  we  did  our  lives. 
I  am  afraid  he  caught  his  death  the  last  county  sessions,  where  he 
would  go  to  see  justice  done  to  a  poor  widow  woman,  and  her  father- 
less children,  that  had  been  wronged  by  a  neighboring  gentleman  ; 
for  you  know,  sir,  my  good  master  was  always  the  poor  man's 
friend.  Upon  his  coming  home,  the  first  complaint  he  made  was, 
that  he  had  lost  his  roast  beef  stomach,  not  being  able  to  touch  a 
sirloin,  which  was  served  up  according  to  custom ;  and  you  know  he 
used  to  take  great  delight  in  it.     From  that  time  forward  he  grew 


114  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

worse  and  worse,  but  still  kept  a  good  heart  to  the  last.  Indeed  we 
were  once  in  great  hope  of  his  recovery,  upon  a  kind  message  that 
was  sent  him  from  the  widow  lady  whom  he  had  made  love  to  the 
forty  last  years  of  his  life  ;  but  this  only  proved  a  light'ning  before 
death.  He  has  bequeathed  to  this  lady,  as  a  token  of  his  love,  a 
great  pearl  necklace,  and  a  couple  of  silver  bracelets  set  with  jewels, 
which  belonged  to  my  good  old  lady  his  mother :  he  has  bequeathed 
the  fine  white  gelding,  that  he  used  to  ride  a  hunting  upon,  to  his 
chaplain,  because  he  thought  he  would  be  kind  to  him,  and  has  left 
you  all  his  books.  He  has,  moreover,  bequeathed  to  the  chaplain  a 
very  pretty  tenement  with  good  lands  about  it.  It  being  a  very  cold 
day  when  he  made  his  will,  he  left  for  mourning,  to  every  man  in  the 
parish,  a  great  frieze-coat,  and  to  every  voman  a  black  riding-hood. 
It  was  a  most  moving  sight  to  see  him  take  leave  of  his  poor  ser- 
vants, commending  us  all  for  our  fidelity,  whilst  we  were  not  able  to 
speak  a  word  for  weeping.  As  we  most  of  us  are  grown  gray-headed 
in  our  dear  master's  service,  he  has  left  us  pensions  and  legacies, 
which  we  may  live  very  comfortably  upon  the  remaining  part  of  our 
days.  He  has  bequeathed  a  great  deal  more  in  charity,  which  is  not 
yet  come  to  my  knowledge,  and  it  is  peremptorily  said  in  the  parish, 
that  he  has  left  money  to  build  a  steeple  to  the  church  ;  for  he  was 
heard  to  say  some  time  ago,  that  if  he  lived  two  years  longer, 
Coverley  church  should  have  a  steeple  to  it.  The  chaplain  tells 
everybody  that  he  made  a  very  good  end,  and  never  speaks  of  him 
without  tears.  He  was  buried  according  to  his  own  directions, 
among  the  family  of  the  Coverleys,  on  the  left  hand  of  his  father.  Sir 
Arthur.  The  coffin  was  carried  by  six  of  his  tenants,  and  the  pall 
held  up  by  six  of  the  quorum  :  the  whole  parish  followed  the  corpse 
with  heavy  hearts,  and  in  their  mourning  suits,  the  men  in  frieze,  and 
the  women  in  riding-hoods.  Captain  Sentry,  my  master's  nephew, 
has  taken  possession  of  the  Hall-house,  and  the  whole  estate. 
When  my  old  master  saw  him  a  little  before  his  death,  he  shook 
him  by  the  hand,  and  wished  him  joy  of  the  estate  which  was  falling 
to  him,  desiring  him  only  to  make  good  use  of  it,  and  to  pay  the 
several  legacies,  and  the  gifts  of  charity  which  he  told  him  he  had 
left  as  quitrents  upon  the  estate.  The  captain  truly  seems  a  courte- 
ous man,  though  he  says  but  little.  He  makes  much  of  those  whom 
my  master  loved,  and  shows  great  kindness  to  the  old  house-dog, 
that  you  know  my  poor  master  was  so  fond  of.  It  would  have  gone 
to  your  heart  to  have  heard  the  moans  the  dumb  creature  made  on 
the  day  of  my  master's  death.     He  has  never  joyed  himself  since  ; 


JOSEPH    ADDISON.  1 15 

no  more  has  any  of  us.     'Twas  the  melancholiest  day  for  the  poor 

people  that  ever  happened  in  Worcestershire.     This  being  all  from, 

Honored  sir,  your  most  sorrowful  servant, 

Edward  Biscuit. 

P.  S.  My  master  desired,  some  weeks  before  he  died,  that  a  book 
which  comes  up  to  you  by  the  carrier  should  be  given  to  Sir  Andrew 
Freeport,  in  his  name. 

This  letter,  notwithstanding  the  poor  butler's  manner  of  writing  it, 
gave  us  such  an  idea  of  our  good  old  friend,  that  upon  the  reading  of 
it  there  was  not  a  dry  eye  in  the  club.  Sir  Andrew,  opening  the 
book,  found  it  to  be  a  collection  of  acts  of  Parliament.  There  was  in 
particular  the  act  of  uniformity,  with  some  passages  in  it  marked  by 
Sir  Roger's  own  hand.  Sir  Andrew  found  that  they  related  to  two 
or  three  points,  which  he  had  disputed  with  Sir  Roger  the  last  time 
he  appeared  at  the  club.  Sir  Andrew,  who  would  have  been  merry 
at  such  an  incident  on  another  occasion,  at  the  sight  of  the  old 
man's  handwriting  burst  into  tears,  and  put  the  book  into  his  pocket. 
Captain  Sentry  informs  me,  that  the  knight  has  left  rings  and 
mourning  for  every  one  in  the  club. 


THE   DIGNITY   OF   HUMAN   NATURE. 

[From  the  Tatler.] 

I  MUST  confess,  there  is  nothing  that  more  pleases  me,  in  all  that 
I  read  in  books  or  see  among  mankind,  than  such  passages  as  rep- 
resent human  nature  in  its  proper  dignity.  As  man  is  a  creature 
made  up  of  different  extremes,  he  has  something  in  him  very  great 
and  very  mean.  A  skilful  artist  may  draw  an  excellent  picture  of 
him  in  either  of  these  views.  The  finest  authors  of  antiquity  have 
taken  him  on  the  more  advantageous  side.  They  cultivate  the 
natural  grandeur  of  the  soul,  raise  in  her  a  generous  ambition,  feed 
her  with  hopes  of  immortality  and  perfection,  and  do  all  they  can  to 
widen  the  partition  between  the  virtuous  and  the  vicious,  by  making 
the  difference  betwixt  them  as  great  as  between  gods  and  brutes. 
In  short,  it  is  impossible  to  read  a  page  in  Plato,  Tully,  and  a  thou- 
sand other  ancient  moralists,  without  being  a  greater  and  a  better 
man  for  it.  On  the  contrary,  I  could  never  read  any  of  our  modish 
French  authors,  or  those  of  our  own  country,  who  are  the  imitators 
and  admirers  of  that  trifling  nation,  without  being  for  some  time  out 


Il6  HAND-ROOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

of  humor  with  myself  and  at  everything  about  me.  Their  business 
is  to  depreciate  human  nature,  and  consider  it  under  its  worst  ap- 
pearances. They  give  mean  interpretations  and  base  motives  to  the 
worthiest  actions  :  they  resolve  virtue  and  vice  into  constitution. 
In  short,  they  endeavor  to  make  no  distinction  between  man  and 
man,  or  between  the  species  of  men  and  that  of  brutes.  As  an 
instance  of  this  kind  of  authors,  among  many  others,  let  any  one 
examine  the  celebrated  Rochefoucauld,  who  is  the  great  philosopher 
for  administering  of  consolation  to  the  idle,  the  envious,  and  worth- 
less part  of  mankind. 

I  remember  a  young  gentleman  of  moderate  understanding,  but 
great  vivacity,  who,  by  dipping  into  many  authors  of  this  nature,  had 
got  a  little  smattering  of  knowledge,  just  enough  to  make  an  atheist 
or  a  free-thinker,  but  not  a  philosopher  or  a  man  of  sense.  With 
these  accomplishments,  he  went  to  visit  his  father  in  the  country, 
who  was  a  plain,  rough,  honest  man,  and  wise,  though  not  learned. 
The  son,  who  took  all  opportunities  to  show  his  learning,  began  to 
establish  a  new  religion  in  the  family,  and  to  enlarge  the  narrow- 
ness of  their  country  notions  ;  in  which  he  succeeded  so  well,  that 
he  had  seduced  the  butler  by  his  table-talk,  and  staggered  his  eldest 
sister.  The  old  gentleman  began  to  be  alarmed  at  the  schisms  that 
arose  among  his  children,  but  did  not  yet  believe  his  son's  doctrine 
to  be  so  pernicious  as  it  really  was,  till  one  day,  talking  of  his  set- 
ting dog,  the  son  said  "  he  did  not  question  but  Tray  was  as  im- 
mortal as  any  one  of  the  family  ;  "  and,  in  the  heat  of  the  argument, 
told  his  father,  "  that,  for  his  own  part,  he  expected  to  die  hke  a 
dog."  Upon  which,  the  old  man,  starting  up  in  a  very  great  pas- 
sion, cried  out,  "  Then,  sirrah,  you  shall  live  like  one  !  "  and,  taking 
his  cane  in  his  hand,  cudgelled  him  out  of  his  system. 

This  had  so  good  an  effect  upon  him,  that  he  took  up  from  that 
day,  fell  to  reading  good  books,  and  is  now  a  bencher  in  the  Middle 
Temple. 


RICHARD   STEELE. 

Richard  Steele  was  born  in  Dublin,  of  English  parents,  in  1675.  He  was  a  fellow-student 
with  Addison  at  the  Charter  House  School  in  London,  and  afterwards  at  Oxford.  He  en- 
listed in  the  army,  to  the  great  displeasure  of  his  friends,  and  to  the  detriment  of  his  own 
manners  and  morals.  Later,  in  order  to  correct  some  of  his  own  bad  habits,  he  resorted  to 
the  unusual  and  not  very  successful  expedient  of  writing  a  religious  work,  which  he  pub- 
lished under  the  title  of  The  Christian  Hero.  From  this  he  turned  to  the  more  congenial 
labor  of  writing  comedies.    Afterwards,  in  1709,  he  projected  the  Tatler,  a  tri-weekly  publi- 


RICHARD   STEELE.  II7 

cation,  in  which  some  of  the  most  delightful  essays  in  the  language  appeared.  'J'his  was 
succeeded  in  1711  by  The  Spectator,  issued  daily.  The  Guardian  came  next,  in  1713,  and 
several  other  similar  but  less  brilliant  papers  followed.  Addison  and  Steele  were  the  prin- 
cipal writers,  Steele  taking  the  lead  in  The  Tatler  and  The  Guardian,  and  Addison  in  The 
Spectator.  The  original  conception  of  the  "  Spectator  Club  "  was  Steele's,  but  it  was  Ad- 
dison that  gave  to  their  portraits  most  of  the  artistic  touches  that  have  continued  to  charm 
all  readers. 

During  much  of  his  life  Steele  was  a  man  of  fashion,  always  extravagant,  and  always  in 
debt.  He  served  in  Parliament  with  some  distinction,  and,  in  a  time  of  universal  corruption, 
managed  to  keep  his  hands  pretty  clean.     He  was  knighted  by  George  I.     He  died  in  1729. 

In  The  English  Humorists  Thackeray  has  given  a  very  picturesque  sketch  of  his  life 
and  character. 

[From  the  Tatlec] 

The  first  sense  of  sorrow  1  ever  knew  was  upon  the  death  of  my 
father,  at  which  time  I  was  not  quite  five  years  of  age  ;  but  was 
rather  amazed  at  what  all  the  house  meant,  than  possessed  with  a 
real  understanding  why  nobody  was  willing  to  play  with  me.  I  re- 
member I  went  into  the  room  where  his  body  lay,  and  my  mother 
sat  weeping  alone  by  ft.  I  had  my  battledoor  in  my  hand,  and  fell 
a-beating  the  coffin,  and  calling  papa ;  for,  I  know  not  how,  I  had 
some  slight  idea  that  he  was  locked  up  there. 

My  mother  catched  me  in  her  arms,  and,  transported  beyond  all 
patience  of  the  silent  grief  she  was  before  in,  she  almost  smothered 
me  in  her  embrace,  and  told  me,  in  a  flood  of  tears,  "  Papa  could  not 
hear  me,  and  would  play  with  me  no  more,  for  they  were  going  to 
put  him  under  ground,  whence  he  could  never  come  to  us  again." 
She  was  a  very  beautiful  woman,  of  a  noble  spirit,  and  there  was  a 
dignity  in  her  grief  amidst  all  the  wildness  of  her  transport ;  which, 
methought,  struck  me  with  an  instinct  of  sorrow,  which,  before  I 
was  sensible  of  what  it  was  to  grieve,  seized  my  very  soul,  and  has 
made  pity  the  weakness  of  my  heart  ever  since.  The  mind  in  in- 
fancy is,  methinks,  like  the  body  in  embryo ;  and  receives  impres- 
sions so  forcible,  that  they  are  as  hard  to  be  removed  by  reason,  as 
any  mark,  with  which  a  child  is  born,  is  to  be  taken  away  by  any 
future  application.  Hence  it  is,  that  good-nature  in  me  is  no  merit ; 
but,  having  been  so  frequently  overwhelmed  with  her  tears  before  I 
knew  the  cause  of  any  affliction,  or  could  draw  defences  from  my  own 
judgment,  I  imbibed  commiseration,  remorse,  and  an  unmanly  gen- 
tleness of  mind,  which  has  since  insnared  me  into  ten  thousand 
calamities  ;  and  from  whence  I  can  reap  no  advantage,  except  it  be, 
that,  in  such  a  humor  as  I  am  now  in,  I  can  the  better  indulge  my- 
self in  the  softness  of  humanity,  and  enjoy  that  sweet  anxiety  which 
arises  from  the  memory  of  past  afflictions. 

We,  that  are  very  old,  are  better  able  to  remember  things  which 


lib'  HAND-BOOK  OF  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

befell  us  in  our  distant  youth,  than  the  passages  of  later  days.  For 
this  reason  it  is  that  the  companions  of  my  strong  and  vigorous 
years  present  themselves  more  immediately  to  me  in  this  office  of 
sorrow.  Untimely  or  unhappy  deaths  are  what  we  are  apt  to  la- 
ment ;  so  little  are  we  able  to  make  it  indifferent  when  a  thing  hap- 
pens, though  we  know  it  must  happen.  Thus  we  groan  under  Hfe, 
and  bewail  those  who  are  relieved  from  it.  Every  object  that  returns 
to  our  imagination  raises  different  passions,  according  to  the  circum- 
stances of.  their  departure.  Who  can  have  hved  in  an  army,  and  in 
a  serious  hour  reflect  upon  the  many  gay  and  agreeable  men  that 
might  long  have  flourished  in  the  arts  of  peace,  and  not  join  with 
the  imprecations  of  the  fatherless  and  widow  on  the  tyrant  to  whose 
ambition  they  fell  sacrifices  ?  But  gallant  men,  who  are  cut  off  by 
the  sword,  move  rather  our  veneration  than  our  pity  ;  and  we  gather 
relief  enough  from  their  own  contempt  of  death,  to  make  it  no  evil, 
which  was  approached  with  so  much  cheerfulness,  and  attended  with 
so  much  honor.  But  when  we  turn  our  thoughts  from  the  great 
parts  of  life  on  such  occasions,  and  instead  of  lamenting  those  who 
stood  ready  to  give  death  to  those  from  whom  they  had  the  fortune 
to  receive  it ;  I  say,  when  we  let  our  thoughts  wander  from  such 
noble  objects,  and  consider  the  havoc  which  is  made  among  the  ten- 
der and  the  innocent,  pity  enters  with  an  unmixed  softness,  and  pos- 
sesses all  our  souls  at  once. 


[From  the  same.     On  Story-Tellers.] 

As  the  choosing  of  pertinent  circumstances  is  the  life  of  a  story, 
and  that  wherein  humor  principally  consists,  so  the  collectors  of 
impertinent  particulars  are  the  very  bane  and  opiates  of  conversa- 
tion. Old  men  are  great  transgressors  this  way.  Poor  Ned  Poppy 
—  he's  gone  !  —  was  a  very  honest  man,  but  was  so  excessively  te- 
dious over  his  pipe,  that  he  was  not  to  be  endured.  He  knew  so 
exactly  what  they  had  for  dinner  when  such  a  thing  happened,  in 
what  ditch  his  bay  horse  had  his  sprain  at  that  time,  and  how  his 
man  John  —  no,  it  was  William  —  started  a  hare  in  the  common 
field,  that  he  never  got  to  the  end  of  his  tale.  Then  he  was  ex- 
tremely particular  in  marriages  and  intermarriages,  and  cousins 
twice  or  thrice  removed,  and  whether  such  a  thing  happened  at  the 
latter  end  of  July  or  the  beginning  of  August. 

But  of  all  evils  in  story-telling,  the  humor  of  telling  tales  one  after 
another  in  great  numbers  is  the  least  supportable.     Sir  Harry  Pan- 


LORD   BOLINGBROKE.  1 19 

dolf  and  his  son  gave  my  Lady  Lizard  great  offence  in  this  particu- 
lar. Sir  Harry  hath  what  they  call  a  string  of  stories,  which  he 
tells  over  every  Christmas.  When  our  family  visits  there,  we  are 
constantly,  after  supper,  entertained  with  the  Glastonbury  Thorn. 
When  we  have  wondered  at  that  a  httle,  "Ay,  but,  father,"  saith 
the  son,  "  let  us  have  the  Spirit  in  the  Wood."  After  that  hath 
been  laughed  at,  "Ay,  but,  father,"  cries  the  booby  again,  "tell 
us  how  you  served  the  robber."  "  Alack-a-day,"  saith  Sir  Harry 
with  a  smile,  and  rubbing  his  forehead,  "  I  have  almost  forgot  that ; 
but  it  is  a  pleasant  conceit,  to  be  sure."  Accordingly  he  tells  that 
and  twenty  more  in  the  same  independent  order,  and  without  the 
least  variation,  at  this  day,  as  he  hath  done,  to  my  knowledge,  ever 
since  the  Revolution.  I  must  not  forget  a  very  odd  compliment  that 
Sir  Harry  always  makes  my  lady  when  he  dines  here.  After  dinner 
he  says,  with  a  feigned  concern  in  his  countenance,  "  Madam,  I  have 
lost  by  you  to-day."  "  How  so.  Sir  Harry  ? "  rephes  my  lady. 
"  Madam,"  says  he,  "  I  have  lost  an  excellent  appetite."  At  this 
his  son  and  heir  laughs  immoderately,  and  winks  upon  Mrs.  Anna- 
bella.  This  is  the  thirty-third  time  that  Sir  Harry  hath  been  thus 
arch,  and  I  can  bear  it  no  longer. 


LORD   BOLINGBROKE. 

Henry  St.  John,  Viscount  Bolingbroke,  was  born  in  1678,  was  educated  at  Eton  and  Ox- 
ford, and  entered  at  once  into  political  life.  He  was  possessed  of  brilliant  talents  and  great 
personal  influence,  yet  his  public  life  was,  nevertheless,  a  signal  failure ;  and,  although  he 
was  the  most  conspicuous  figure  among  the  literary  men  of  Queen  Anne's  time,  his  works 
are  no  longer  read.  It  is  supposed  that  his  ideas,  communicated  to  Pope,  form  the  staple 
of  the  famous  Essay  on  Man,  and  this  circumstance  has  kept  alive  a  certain  interest  in  his 
name.     He  died  in  1751. 

THE   MIND   SUPERIOR  TO   CIRCUMSTANCES. 

Believe  me,  the  providence  of  God  has  established  such  an  order 
in  the  world,  that  of  all  which  belongs  to  us,  the  least  valuable  parts 
can  alone  fall  under  the  will  of  others.  Whatever  is  best  is  safest, 
lies  most  out  of  the  reach  of  human  power,  can  neither  be  given  nor 
taken  away.  Such  is  this  great  and  beautiful  work  of  nature,  the 
world.  Such  is  the  mind  of  man,  which  contemplates  and  admires 
the  world,  where  it  makes  the  noblest  part.  These  are  inseparably 
ours  ;  and  as  long  as  we  remain  in  one,  we  shall  enjoy  the  other. 
Let  us  march,  therefore,  intrepidly,  wherever  we  are  led  by  the 


120  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

course  of  human  accidents.  Wherever  they  lead  us,  on  what  coast 
soever  we  are  thrown  by  them,  we  shall  not  find  ourselves  absolutely 
strangers.  We  shall  meet  with  men  and  women,  creatures  of  the 
same  figure,  endowed  with  the  same  faculties,  and  born  under  the 
same  laws  of  nature.  We  shall  see  the  same  virtues  and  vices  flow 
ing  from  the  same  general  principles,  but  varied  in  a  thousand  dif- 
ferent  and  contrary  modes,  according  to  that  infinite  variety  of  lawJ 
and  customs  which  is  established  for  the  same  universal  end  —  th< 
preservation  of  society.  We  shall  feel  the  same  revolutions  of  sea 
sons,  and  the  same  sun  and  moon  will  guide  the  course  of  our  year 
The  same  azure  vault,  bespangled  with  stars,  will  be  everywhere 
spread  over  our  heads.  There  is  no  part  of  the  world  from  whence 
we  may  not  admire  those  planets,  which  roll,  like  ours,  in  different 
orbits,  round  the  same  central  sun  ;  from  whence  we  may  not  dis- 
cover an  object  still  more  stupendous  —  that  army  of  fixed  stars 
hung  up  in  the  immense  space  of  the  universe,  innumerable  suns, 
whose  beams  enlighten  and  cherish  the  unknown  worlds  which  roll 
around  them  ;  and  whilst  I  am  ravished  by  such  contemplations  as 
these,  whilst  my  soul  is  thus  raised  up  to  heaven,  it  imports  me 
little  what  ground  I  tread  upon. 


ALEXANDER   POPE. 

I^  somewhat  more  than  a  hundred  years  ago,  we  had  seen  a  little  man  —  so  little  that  he 
required  a  high  chair  to  bring  him  to  the  level  of  an  ordinary  dining  table  ;  so  lean,  shriv- 
elied,  and  weak  that  he  must  be  wrapped  in  flannels,  sewn  up  in  corsets,  and  thrice  stock- 
inged ;  unable  to  dress  or  undress,  or  to  lie  down  or  rise,  without  assistance  ;  so  crooked 
and  deformed  as  to  be  nicknamed  an  interrogation  point ;  but  with  a  fine,  thin  face,  and  an 
eye  that  glowed  like  a  coal,  —  if  we  had  seen  tliis  singular  figure  in  a  court  suit  of  black, 
wearing  a  little  sword,  and  distinguished  by  his  elegant  manners,  we  should  not  need  any 
further  introduction  to  Pope. 

He  was  bom  in  1688,  the  son  of  a  thriving  tradesman  in  London,  and  received  the  rudi- 
ments of  his  education  from  the  family  confessor.  Though  he  attended  school  somewhat, 
he  was  mainly  his  own  teacher.  As  he  says  of  himself,  he  "  lisped  in  numbers, "  and  planned 
epic  poems  before  he  was  twelve  years  old.  His  Essay  on  Criticism  was  published  in  his 
twentieth  year.  The  Rape  of  the  Lock,  one  of  his  most  perfect  pieces,  is  a  mock  hercic, 
founded  upon  the  clipping  of  a  curl  from  Miss  Fermor  by  her  lover,  Lord  Petrie.  His 
principal  work  was  the  translation  (or,  in  this  case,  according  to  the  German  idiom,  the 
oversetting)  of  the  Iliad,  in  which  the  reader,  instead  of  the  fi-ee  and  incommunicable  sim- 
plicity and  majesty  of  Homer,  finds  the  strong  and  musical,  but  wholly  artificial  couplets 
of  Mr.  Pope's  own  make.  In  The  Dunciad  the  poet  took  a  terrible  revenge  upon  his  crit- 
ics and  jealous  rivals,  but  not  always  with  justice  ;  for  even  so  admirable  a  writer  as  Defoe 
is  pilloried  with  the  others.  The  Essay  on  Man  has  been  alluded  to  in  the  notice  of  Bo- 
lingbroke. 

There  is  not  room  to  mention  in  detail  the  separate  works  of  this  most  ingenious  and 


ALEXANDER   POPE.  121 

ixidustrious  aiuhor,  nor  to  give  more  than  the  most  meagre  account  of  his  busy  life  and  ht- 
erary  quarrels.  His  satire  was  sharp,  and  there  were  few  authors  of  eminence  who  did  no! 
at  some  time  feel  its  edge.  The  literary  history  of  the  time  is  full  of  interest  to  the  student, 
and  the  materials  for  its  study  are,  fortunately,  ample.  The  complete  poetical  works  of 
Pope  are  published  in  many  editions,  that  in  the  series  of  The  British  Poets  being  a  promi- 
nent one.  His  setters  deserve  mention  among  the  most  easy  and  polished  specimens  of 
epistolary  composition.     He  died  in  1744. 

[From  the  "  Essay  on  Man."] 

EPISTLE   I. 

Heaven  from  all  creatures  hides  the  book  of  fate, 

All  but  the  page  prescribed,  their  present  state  : 

From  brutes  what  men,  from  men  what  spirits  know  : 

Or  who  could  suffer  being  here  below  1 

The  lamb  thy  riot  dooms  to  bleed  to-day, 

Had  he  thy  reason,  would  he  skip  and  play  ? 

Pleased  to  the  last,  he  crops  the  flowery  food, 

And  licks  the  hand  just  raised  to  shed  his  blood. 

O,  blindness  to  the  future  !  kindly  given, 

That  each  may  fill  the  circle  marked  by  Heav^en, 

Who  sees  with  equal  eye,  as  God  of  all, 

A  hero  perish,  or  a  sparrow  fall, 

Atoms  or  systems  into  ruin  hurled. 

And  now  a  bubble  burst,  and  now  a  world. 

Hope  humbly  then  ;  with  trembling  pinions  soar ; 
Wait  the  great  teacher  Death,  and  God  adore. 
What  future  bliss,  he  gives  not  thee  to  know, 
But  gives  that  hope  to  be  thy  blessing  now. 
Hope  springs  eternal  in  the  human  breast : 
Man  never  is,  but  always  to  be,  blest. 
The  soul  uneasy  and  confined,  from  home, 
Rests  and  expatiates  in  a  hfe  to  come. 

Lo,  the  poor  Indian  !  whose  untutored  mind 
Sees  God  in  clouds,  or  hears  him  in  the  wind ; 
His  soul  proud  science  never  taught  to  stray 
Far  as  the  solar  walk,  or  milky  way  ; 
Yet  simple  nature  to  his  hope  has  given, 
Behind  the  cloud-topped  hill,  an  humbler  heaven  ; 
Some  safer  world,  in  depth  of  woods  embraced. 
Some  happier  island  in  the  watery  waste, 
Where  slaves  once  more  their  native  land  behold. 
No  fiends  torment,  no  Christians  thirst  for  gold : 


122  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

To  be,  contents  his  natural  desire  ; 
He  asks  no  angel's  wing,  no  seraph's  fire ; 
But  thinks,  admitted  to  that  equal  sky, 
His  faithful  dog  shall  bear  him  company. 

Far  as  creation's  ample  range  extends. 
The  scale  of  sensual,  mental  powers  ascends : 
Mark  how  it  mounts,  to  man's  imperial  race, 
From  the  green  myriads  in  the  peopled  grass  : 
What  modes  of  sight  betwixt  each  wide  extreme, 
The  mole's  dim  curtain  and  the  lynx's  beam ; 
Of  smell,  the  headlong  lioness  between, 
And  hound  sagacious  on  the  tainted  green  ; 
Of  hearing,  from  the  life  that  fills  the  flood, 
To  that  which  warbles  through  the  vernal  wood  ? 
The  spider's  touch,  how  exquisitely  fine  ! 
Feels  at  each  thread,  and  lives  along  the  line  : 
In  the  nice  bee,  what  sense  so  subtly  true 
From  poisonous  herbs  extracts  the  healing  dew  ! 
How  instinct  varies  in  the  grovelling  swine, 
Compared,  half-reasoning  elephant,  with  thine ! 
'Twixt  that  and  reason  what  a  nice  barrier  ! 
Forever  separate,  yet  forever  near  ! 
Remembrance  and  reflection,  how  allied  ! 
What  thin  partitions  sense  from  thought  divide  ! 
And  middle  natures,  how  they  long  to  join, 
Yet  never  pass  the  insuperable  line  ! 
Without  this  just  gradation,  could  they  be 
Subjected,  these  to  those,  or  all  to  thee  ? 
The  powers  of  all  subdued  by  thee  alone. 
Is  not  thy  reason  all  these  powers  in  one  ? 

What  if  the  foot,  ordained  the  dust  to  tread, 
Or  hand  to  toil,  aspired  to  be  the  head  ? 
What  if  the  head,  the  eye,  or  ear  repined 
To  serve  mere  engines  to  the  ruling  mind  ? 
Just  as  absurd  for  any  part  to  claim 
To  be  another,  in  this  general  frame  ; 
Just  as  absurd  to  mourn  the  tasks  or  pains 
The  great  directing  Mind  of  All  ordains. 

All  are  but  parts  of  one  stupendous  whole, 


ALEXANDER  POPE.  1 23 

Whose  body  nature  is,  and  God  the  soul ; 

That,  changed  through  all,   and  yet  in  all  the  same  ; 

Great  in  the  earth,  as  in  the  ethereal  frame ; 

Warms  in  the  sun,  refreshes  in  the  breeze. 

Glows  in  the  stars,  and  blossoms  in  the  trees  ; 

Lives  through  all  life,  extends  through  all  extent, 

Spreads  undivided,  operates  unspent ; 

Breathes  in  our  soul,  informs  our  mortal  part, 

As  full,  as  perfect,  in  a  hair  as  heart ; 

As  full,  as  perfect,  in  vile  man  that  mourns, 

As  the  rapt  seraph,  that  adores  and  burns  : 

To  Him  no  high,  no  low,  no  great,  no  small ; 

He  fills.  He  bounds,  connects,  and  equals  all. 

Cease  then,  nor  order  imperfection  name  : 
Our  proper  bliss  depends  on  what  we  blame. 
Know  thy  own  point :  this  kind,  this  due  degree 
Of  blindness,  weakness,  Heaven  bestows  on  thee. 
Submit —  In  this,  or  any  other  sphere. 
Secure  to  be  as  blest  as  thou  canst  bear  ; 
Safe  in  the  hand  of  one  disposing  Power, 
Or  in  the  natal  or  the  mortal  hour. 
All  nature  is  but  art,  unknown  to  thee  ; 
All  chance,  direction,  which  thou  canst  not  see ; 
All  discord,  harmony  not  understood  ; 
All  partial  evil,  universal  good  : 
And,  spite  of  pride,  in  erring  reason's  spite, 
One  truth  is  clear,  Whatever  is,  is  right. 


FROM   EPISTLE   111. 

'Twas  then,  the  studious  head,  or  generous  mind, 
Follower  of  God,  or  friend  of  human-kind, 
Poet  or  Patriot,  rose  but  to  restore 
The  faith  and  moral  Nature  gave  before  ; 
Relumed  her  ancient  light,  not  kindled  new  ; 
If  not  God's  image,  yet  his  shadow  drew : 
Taught  power's  due  use  to  people  and  to  kings. 
Taught  nor  to  slack  nor  strain  its  tender  strings. 
The  less,  or  greater,  set  so  justly  true. 
That  touching  one  must  strike  the  other  too  ; 
Till  jarring  interests  of  themselves  create 
The  according  music  of  a  well-mixed  state. 


124  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

Such  is  the  world's  great  harmony,  that  springs 

From  order,  union,  full  consent  of  things  : 

Where  small  and  great,  where  weak  and  mighty,  made 

To  serve,  not  suffer,  strengthen,  not  invade  ; 

More  powerful  each  as  needful  to  the  rest, 

And,  in  proportion  as  it  blesses,  blest ; 

Draw  to  one  point,  and  to  one  centre  bring 

Beast,  man,  or  angel,  servant,  lord,  or  king. 

For  forms  of  government  let  fools  contest ; 
Whate'er  is  best  administered  is  best : 
For  modes  of  faith  let  graceless  zealots  fight ; 
His  can't  be  wrong  whose  life  is  in  the  right : 
In  faith  and  hope  the  world  will  disagree, 
But  all  mankind's  concern  is  charity  : 
All  must  be  false  that  thwart  this  one  great  end  ; 
And  all  of  God  that  bless  mankind  or  mend. 

Man,  like  the  generous  vine,  supported  lives  ; 
The  strength  he  gains  is  from  the  embrace  he  gives. 
On  their  own  axis  as  the  planets  run. 
Yet  make  at  once  their  circle  round  the  sun. 
So  two  consistent  motions  act  the  soul ; 
And  one  regards  itself,  and  one  the  whole. 

Thus  God  and  Nature  linked  the  general  frame, 
And  bade  self-love  and  social  be  the  same. 


EPISTLE   IV. 

O  happiness  !  our  being's  end  and  aim  ! 
Good,  pleasure,  ease,  content,  whate'er  thy  name, 
That  something  still  which  prompts  the  eternal  sigh. 
P^or  which  we  bear  to  live,  or  dare  to  die. 
Which  still  so  near  us,  yet  beyond  us  lies, 
O'erlooked,  seen  double,  by  the  fool,  and  wise. 
Plant  of  celestial  seed  !  if  dropped  below. 
Say,  in  what  mortal  soil  thou  deign'st  to  grow  ? 
Fair  opening  to  some  court's  propitious  shrine, 
Or  deep  with  diamonds  in  the  flaming  mine  ? 
Twined  with  the  wreaths  Parnassian  laurels  yield, 
Or  reaped  in  iron  harvests  of  the  field  ? 
Where  grows  ?  —  where  grows  it  not  ?     If  vain  our  toil, 
We  ought  to  blame  the  culture,  not  the  soil : 
Fixed  to  no  spot  is  happiness  sincere  ; 


ALEXANDER   POPE.  12$ 

Tis  nowhere  to  be  found,  or  everywhere  : 

'Tis  never  to  be  bought,  but  always  free, 

And  fled  from  monarchs,  St.  John  !  dwells  with  thee. 

Honor  and  shame  from  no  condition  rise  ; 
Act  well  your  part,  there  all  the  honor  lies. 
Fortune  in  men  has  some  small  difference  made ; 
One  flaunts  in  rags,  one  flutters  in  brocade  ; 
The  cobbler  aproned,  and  the  parson  gowned, 
The  friar  hooded,  and  the  monarch  crowned. 
"  What  differ  more  (you  cry)  than  crown  and  cowl  ?  " 
I'll  tell  you,  friend,  a  wise  man  and  a  fool. 
You'll  find,  if  once  the  monarch  acts  the  monk. 
Or,  cobbler-like,  the  parson  will  be  drunk, 
Worth  makes  the  man,  and  want  of  it  the  fellow ; 
The  rest  is  all  but  leather  or  prunello. 

Go  !  if  your  ancient  but  ignoble  blood 

Has  crept  through  scoundrels  ever  since  the  flood, 

Go  !  and  pretend  your  family  is  young  ; 

Nor  own  your  fathers  have  been  fools  so  long. 

What  can  ennoble  sots,  or  slaves,  or  cowards  ? 

Alas  !  not  all  the  blood  of  all  the  Howards. 

All  fame  is  foreign,  but  of  true  desert ; 
Plays  round  the  head,  but  comes  not  to  the  heart : 
One  self-approving  hour  whole  years  outweighs 
Of  stupid  starers,  and  of  loud  huzzas ; 
And  more  true  joy  Marcellus  exiled  feels, 
Than  Caesar  with  a  senate  at  his  heels. 

In  parts  superior  what  advantage  lies  ? 
Tell  (for  you  can)  what  is  it  to  be  wise  ? 
'Tis  but  to  know  how  little  can  be  known  ; 
To  see  all  others'  faults,  and  feel  our  own : 
Condemned  in  business  or  in  arts  to  drudge, 
Without  a  second,  or  without  a  judge  : 
Truths  would  you  teach,  or  save  a  sinking  land  ? 
All  fear,  none  aid  you,  and  few  understand. 
Painful  pre-eminence  !  yourself  to  view 
Above  life's  weakness,  and  its  comforts  too. 

If  parts  allure  thee,  think  how  Bacon  shined, 


26  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

The  wisest,  brightest,  meanest  of  mankind : 
Or,  ravished  with  the  whistHng  of  a  name, 
See  Cromwell,  damned  to  everlasting  fame  ! 
If  all,  united,  thy  ambition  call, 
From  ancient  story  learn  to  scorn  them  all. 
There,  in  the  rich,  the  honored,  famed,  and  great, 
See  the  false  scale  of  happiness  complete  ! 
In  hearts  of  kings  or  arms  of  queens  who  lay. 
How  happy,  those  to  ruin,  these  betray  ! 
Mark  by  what  wretched  steps  their  glory  grows. 
From  dirt  and  sea-weed,  as  proud  Venice  rose  ; 
In  each  how  guilt  and  greatness  equal  ran. 
And  all  that  raised  the  hero  sunk  the  man : 
Now  Europe's  laurels  on  their  brows  behold. 
But  stained  with  blood,  or  ill  exchanged  for  gold : 
Then  see  them  broke  with  toils,  or  sunk  in  ease. 
Or  infamous  for  plundered  provinces. 

See  the  sole  bliss  Heaven  could  on  all  bestow  ! 
Which  who  but  feels  can  taste,  but  thinks  can  know 
Yet  poor  with  fortune,  and  with  learning  blind, 
The  bad  must  miss,  the  good,  untaught,  will  find ; 
Slave  to  no  sect,  who  takes  no  private  road. 
But  looks  through  nature  up  to  nature's  God  ; 
Pursues  that  chain  which  links  the  immense  design, 
Joins  heaven  and  earth,  and  mortal  and  divine  ; 
Sees  that  no  being  any  bliss  can  know. 
But  touches  some  above,  and  some  below ; 
Learns  from  this  union  of  the  rising  whole. 
The  first,  last  purpose  of  the  human  soul ; 
And  knows  where  faith,  law,  morals,  all  began, 
All  end  in  love  of  God,  and  love  of  man. 

Come  then,  my  friend  !  my  genius  !  come  along ; 
O  master  of  the  poet  and  the  song  ! 
And  while  the  Muse  now  stoops,  or  now  ascends, 
To  man's  low  passions,  or  their  glorious  ends, 
Teach  me,  like  thee,  in  various  nature  wise. 
To  fall  with  dignity,  with  temper  rise  ; 
Formed  by  thy  converse,  happily  to  steer 
From  grave  to  gay,  from  lively  to  severe ; 
Correct  with  spirit,  eloquent  with  ease. 


ALEXANDER  POPE.  127 

Intent  to  reason,  or  polite  to  please. 
O,  while  along  the  stream  of  time  thy  name 
Expanded  flies,  and  gathers  all  its  fame, 
Say,  shall  my  little  bark  attendant  sail, 
Pursue  the  triumph,  and  partake  the  gale  ? 
When  statesmen,  heroes,  kings,  in  dust  repose, 
Whose  sons  shall  blush  their  fathers  were  thy  foes, 
Shall  then  this  verse  to  future  age  pretend 
Thou  wert  my  guide,  philosopher,  and  friend  ! 
That  urged  by  thee,  I  turned  the  tuneful  art 
From  sounds  to  things,  from  fancy  to  the  heart ; 
For  wit's  false  mirror  held  up  Nature's  light ; 
Showed  erring  jDride,  whatever  is,  is  right ; 
That  reason,  passion,  answer  one  great  aim  ; 
That  true  self-love  and  social  are  the  same  ; 
That  virtue  only  makes  our  bliss  below  ; 
And  all  our  knowledge  is  —  ourselves  to  know. 


[From  "  The  Rape  of  the  Lock."] 
CANTO  I. 

What  dire  offence  from  amorous  causes  springs, 
What  mighty  contests  rise  from  trivial  things, 
I  sing.     This  verse  to  Caryl,  Muse,  is  due  : 
This  even  Belinda  may  vouchsafe  to  view. 
Slight  is  the  subject,  but  not  so  the  praise, 
If  she  inspire  and  he  approve  my  lays. 

Say  what  strange  motive,  goddess,  could  compel 
A  well-bred  lord  to  assault  a  gentle  belle  ? 
O,  say  what  stranger  cause,  yet  unexplored, 
Could  make  a  gentle  belle  reject  a  lord  ? 
In  tasks  so  bold  can  little  men  engage, 
And  in  soft  bosoms  dwells  such  mighty  rage  .'' 

Sol  through  white  curtains  shot  a  timorous  ray, 
And  oped  those  eyes  that  must  eclipse  the  day. 
Now  lap-dogs  give  themselves  the  rousing  shake, 
And  sleepless  lovers  just  at  twelve  awake. 
Thrice  rung  the  bell,  the  slipper  knocked  the  ground^ 
And  the  pressed  watch  returned  a  silver  sound. 
Belinda  still  her  downy  pillow  pressed  ; 
Her  guardian  sylph  prolonged  the  balmy  rest. 


128  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 


And  now,  unveiled,  the  toilet  stands  displayed, 
Each  silver  vase  in  mystic  order  laid. 
First,  robed  in  white,  the  nymph  intent  adores. 
With  head  uncovered,  the  cosmetic  powers. 
A  heavenly  image  in  the  glass  appears  ; 
To  that  she  bends,  to  that  her  eyes  she  rears. 
The  inferior  priestess,  at  her  altar's  side, 
Trembling,  begins  the  sacred  rites  of  pride. 
Unnumbered  treasures  ope  at  once,  and  here 
The  various  offerings  of  the  world  appear. 
From  each  she  nicely  culls  with  curious  toil, 
And  decks  the  goddess  with  the  glittering  spoil. 
This  casket  India's  glowing  gems  unlocks. 
And  all  Arabia  breathes  from  yonder  box. 
The  tortoise  here  and  elephant  unite. 
Transformed  to  combs,  the  speckled  and  the  white. 
Here  files  of  pins  extend  their  shining  rows. 
Puffs,  powders,  patches,  Bibles,  billet-doux. 
Now  awful  beauty  puts  on  all  its  arms  ; 
The  fair  each  moment  rises  in  her  charms. 
Repairs  her  smiles,  awakens  every  grace. 
And  calls  forth  all  the  wonders  of  her  face  ; 
Sees  by  degrees  a  purer  blush  arise. 
And  keener  lightnings  quicken  in  her  eyes. 
The  busy  sylphs  surround  their  darling  care  ; 
These  set  the  head,  and  those  divide  the  hair. 
Some  fold  the  sleeve,  while  others  plait  the  gown, 
And  Betty's  praised  for  labors  not  her  own. 

CANTO   II. 

Not  with  more  glories,  in  the  ethereal  plain. 

The  sun  first  rises  o'er  the  purpled  main. 

Than,  issuing  forth,  the  rival  of  his  beams 

Launched  on  the  bosom  of  the  silver  Thames. 

Fair  nymphs  and  well-dressed  youths  around  her  shone, 

But  every  eye  was  fixed  on  her  alone. 

On  her  white  breast  a  sparkling  cross  she  wore. 

Which  Jews  might  kiss  and  infidels  adore. 

Her  lively  looks  a  sprightly  mind  disclose. 

Quick  as  her  eyes,  and  as  unfixed  as  those. 


ALEXANDER  POPE.  139 

Favors  to  none,  to  all  she  smiles  extends  ;  . 

Oft  she  rejects,  but  never  once  oflfends.  \ 

Bright  as  the  sun,  her  eyes  the  gazers  strike, 
And,  like  the  sun,  they  shine  on  all  alike. 
Yet  graceful  ease,  and  sweetness  void  of  pride, 
Might  hide  her  faults  if  belles  had  faults  to  hide. 
If  to  her  share  some  female  errors  fall, 
Look  on  her  face,  and  you'll  forget  them  all. 

This  nymph,  to  the  destruction  of  mankind. 
Nourished  two  locks,  which  graceful  hung  behind 
In  equal  curls,  and  well  conspired  to  deck 
With  shining  ringlets  the  smooth,  ivory  neck. 
Love  in  these  labyrinths  his  slaves  detains. 
And  mighty  hearts  are  held  in  slender  chains. 
With  hairy  springes  we  the  birds  betray  ; 
Slight  lines  of  hair  surprise  the  finny  prey, 
Fair  tresses  man's  imperial  race  insnare. 
And  beauty  draws  us  with  a  single  hair. 

The  adventurous  baron  the  bright  locks  admired  | 
He  saw,  he  wished,  and  to  the  prize  aspired. 
Resolved  to  win,  he  meditates  the  way. 
By  forc^  to  ravish,  or  by  fraud  betray  ; 
For  when  success  a  lover's  toil  attends. 
Few  ask  if  fraud  or  force  attained  his  ends. 

For  this,  ere  Phoebus  rose,  he  had  implored 
Propitious  Heaven,  and  every  power  adored. 
But  chiefly  Love  —  to  Love  an  altar  built 
Of  twelve  vast  French  romances,  neatly  gilt. 
There  lay  three  garters,  half  a  pair  of  gloves, 
And  all  the  trophies  of  his  former  loves. 
With  tender  billets-doux  he  lights  the  pyre. 
And  breathes  three  amorous  sighs  to  raise  the  fire. 
Then  prostrate  falls,  and  begs  with  ardent  eyes 
Soon  to  obtain  and  long  possess  the  prize. 
The  powers  gave  ear,  and  granted  half  his  prayer  ; 
The  rest  the  winds  dispersed  in  empty  air. 

But  now  secure  the  painted  vessel  glides. 
The  sunbeams  trembling  on  the  floating  tides, 
While  melting  music  steals  upon  the  sky. 
And  softened  sounds  along  the  waters  die. 
Smooth  flow  the  waves,  the  zephyrs  gently  play, 


130  HAND-BOOK   OF  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

•     Belinda  smiled,  and  all  the  world  was  gay  — 

All  but  the  sylph.    With  careful  thoughts  oppressed, 
The  impending  woe  sat  heavy  on  his  breast. 
He  summons  straight  his  denizens  of  air  ; 
The  lucid  squadrons  round  the  sails  repair. 
Soft  o'er  the  shrouds  aerial  whispers  breathe, 
That  seemed  but  zephyrs  to  the  train  beneath. 
Some  to  the  sun  their  insect  wings  unfold, 
Waft  on  the  breeze,  or  sink  in  clouds  of  gold ; 
Transparent  forms,  too  fine  for  mortal  sight. 
Their  fluid  bodies  half  dissolved  in  light. 
Loose  to  the  wind  their  airy  garments  flew. 
Thin,  glittering  textures  of  the  filmy  dew. 
Dipped  in  the  richest  tincture  of  the  skies,  • 
Where  Hght  disports  in  ever-mingling  dies  ; 
While  every  beam  new  transient  colors  flings  — 
Colors  that  change  whene'er  they  wave  their  wings. 
Amid  the  circle,  on  the  gilded  mast, 
Superior  by  the  head  was  Ariel  placed ; 
His  purple  pinions  opening  to  the  sun, 
He  raised  his  azure  wand,  and  thus  begun  :  — 

Whatever  spirit,  careless  of  his  charge. 
His  post  neglects,  or  leaves  the  fair  at  large. 
Shall  feel  sharp  vengeance  soon  o'ertake  his  sins, 
Be  stjppped  in  vials,  or  transfixed  with  pins. 
Or  plunged  in  lakes  of  bitter  washes  lie. 
Or  wedged  whole  ages  in  a  bodkin's  eye. 
Gums  and  pomatums  shall  his  flight  restrain, . 
While  clogged  he  beats  his  silken  wings  in  vain  ; 
Or  alum  styptics,  with  contracting  power. 
Shrink  his  thin  essence  like  a  rivelled  flower  ; 
Or,  as  Ixion  fixed,  the  wretch  shall  feel 
The  giddy  motion  of  the  whirling  mill. 
In  fumes  of  burning  chocolate  shall  glow, 
And  tremble  at  the  sea  that  froths  below. 

He  spoke  ;  the  spirits  from  the  sails  descend  °, 
Some,  orb  in  orb,  around  the  nymph  extend ; 
Some  thread  the  mazy  ringlets  of  her  hair  ; 
Some  hang  upon  the  pendants  of  her  ear. 
With  beating  hearts  the  dire  event  they  wait, 
Anxious  and  trembling  for  the  birth  of  fate. 


ALEXANDER   POPE.  131 


CANTO   III. 


Close  by  those  meads,  forever  crowned  with  flowers, 
Where  Thames  with  pride  surveys  his  rising  towers, 
There  stands  a  structure  of  majestic  frame, 
Which  from  the  neighboring  Hampton  takes  its  name.  • 
Here  Britain's  statesmen  oft  the  fall  foredoom 
Of  foreign  tyrants  and  of  nymphs  at  home. 
Here  thou,  great  Anna,  whom  three  realms  obey, 
Dost  sometimes  counsel  take — and  sometimes  tea. 
Hither  the  heroes  and  the  nymphs  resort. 

To  taste  a  while  the  pleasures  of  a  court. 

In  various  talk  the  instructive  hours  they  passed  — 

Who  gave  the  ball,  or  paid  the  visit  last. 

One  speaks  the  glory  of  the  British  queen. 

And  one  describes  a  charming  Indian  screen  ; 

A  third  interprets  motions,  looks,  and  eyes  ; 

At  every  word  a  reputation  dies. 

Snuff  or  the  fan  supplies  each  pause  of  chat 

With  singing,  laughing,  ogling,  and  all  that. 
Meanwhile,  declining  from  the  noon  of  day. 

The  sun  obliquely  shoots  his  burning  ray  ; 

The  hungry  judges  soon  the  sentence  sign. 

And  wretches  hang  that  jurymen  may  dine  ; 

The  merchant  from  the  Exchange  returns  in  peace. 

And  the  I6ng  labors  of  the  toilet  cease. 

O,  thoughtless  mortals,  ever  blind  to  fate, 
Too  soon  dejected,  and  too  soon  elate. 
Sudden  these  honors  shall  be  snatched  away, 
And  cursed  forever  this  victorious  day. 

For,  lo  !  the  board  with  cups  and  spoons  is  crowned, 
The  berries  crackle,  and  the  mill  turns  round  ; 
On  shining  altars  of  Japan  they  raise 
The  silver  lamp  ;  the  fiery  spirits  blaze. 
From  silver  spouts  the  grateful  liquors  glide. 
While  China's  earth  receives  the  smoking  tide. 
At  once  they  gratify  their  scent  and  taste. 
And  frequent  cups  prolong  the  rich  repast. 
Straight  hover  round  the  fair  her  airy  band  ; 
Some,  as  she  sipped,  the  fuming  liquor  fanned, 


132  HAND-BOOK   OF  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

Some  o'er  her  lap  their  careful  plumes  displayed, 
Trembling,  and  conscious  of  the  rich  brocade. 
Coifee  (which  makes  the  politician  wise, 
And  see  through  all  things  with  his  half-shut  eyes) 
Sent  up  in  vapors  to  the  baron's  brain 
•    New  stratagems  the  radiant  lock  to  gain. 
,       Ah  !  cease,  rash  youth  ;  desist  ere  'tis  too  late  ; 
Fear  tlie  just  gods,  and  think  of  Scylla's  fate. 
Changed  to  a  bird,  and  sent  to  flit  in  air, 
She  dearly  pays  for  Nisus'  injured  hair. 

But  when  to  mischief  mortals  bend  their  will, 
How  soon  they  find  fit  instruments  of  ill ! 
Just  then  Clarissa  drew,  with  tempting  grace, 
A  two-edged  weapon  from  her  shining  case. 
So  ladies  in  romance  assist  their  knight. 
Present  the  spear,  and  arm  him  for  the  fight. 
He  takes  the  gift  with  reverence,  and  extends 
The  little  engine  on  his  fingers'  ends  ; 
This  just  behind  Belinda's  neck  he  spread, 
As  o'er  the  fragrant  steams  she  bends  her  head. 
Swift  to  the  lock  a  thousand  sprites  repair  ; 
A  thousand  wings,  by  turns,  blow  back  the  hair ; 
And  thrice  they  twitched  the  diamond  in  her  ear  ; 
Thrice  she  looked  back,  and  thrice  the  foe  drew  near. 
Just  in  that  instant  anxious  Ariel  sought 
The  close  recesses  of  the  virgin's  thought.  • 
As  on  the  nosegay  in  her  breast  reclined, 
He  watched  the  ideas  rising  in  her  mind, 
Sudden  he  viewed,  in  spite  of  all  her  art, 
An  earthly  lover  lurking  at  her  heart. 
Amazed,  confused,  he  found  his  power  expired, 
Resigned  to  fate,  and  with  a  sigh  retired. 

The  peer  now  spreads  the  glittering  forfex  wide, 
To  enclose  the  lock  ;  now  joins  it,  to  divide. 
Even  then,  before  the  fatal  engine  closed, 
A  wretched  sylph  too  fondly  interposed  ; 
Fate  urged  the  shears,  and  cut  the  sylph  in  twain 
(But  airy  substance  soon  unites  again) ; 
The  meeting  points  the  sacred  hair  dissever 
From  the  fair  head  forever  and  forever. 
Then  flashed  the  living  lightning  from  her  eyes, 


ALEXANDER   POPE.  133 

And  screams  of  horror  rend  the  affrighted  skies  ; 
Not  louder  shrieks  to  pitying  Heaven  are  cast 
When  husbands  or  when  lap-dogs  breathe  their  last, 
Or  when  rich  china  vessels,  fallen  from  high, 
In  ghttering  dust  and  painted  fragments  lie. 

CANTO    IV. 

But  anxious  cares  the  pensive  nymph  oppressed, 

And  secret  passions  labored  in  her  breast. 

Not  youthful  kings  in  battle  seized  alive, 

Not  scornful  virgins  who  their  charms  survive, 

Not  ardent  lovers  robbed  of  all  their  bliss, 

Not  ancient  ladies  when  refused  a  kiss. 

Not  tyrants  fierce  that  unrepenting  die, 

Not  Cynthia  when  her  manteau's  pinned  awry. 

E'er  felt  such  rage,  resentment,  and  despair. 

As  thou,  sad  virgin,  for  thy  ravished  hair. 

For,  that  sad  moment,  when  the  sylphs  withdrew, 
And  Ariel  weeping  from  Belinda  flew, 
Umbriel,  a  dusky,  melancholy  sprite. 
As  ever  sullied  the  fair  face  of  light, 
Down  to  the  central  earth,  his  proper  scene. 
Repaired  to  search  the  gloomy  cave  of  Spleen. 

Swift  on  his  sooty  pinions  flits  the  gnome. 
And  in  a  vapor  reached  the  dismal  dome. 
No  cheerful  breeze  this  sullen  region  knows, 
The  dreaded  east  is  all  the  wind  that  blows. 
Here  in  a  grotto  sheltered  close  from  air. 
And  screened  in  shades  from  day's  detested  glare, 
She  sighs  forever  on  her  pensive  bed, 
Pain  at  her  side,  and  Megrim  at  her  head. 

Two  handmaids  wait  the  throne :  alike  in  place. 
But  differing  far  in  figure  and  in  face. 
Here  stood  Ill-nature,  like  an  ancient  maid. 
Her  wrinkled  form  in  black  and  white  arrayed. 
With  store  of  prayers,  for  mornings,  nights,  and  noons, 
Her  hand  is  filled  ;  her  bosom  with  lampoons. 

There  Affectation,  with  a  sickly  mien. 
Shows  in  her  cheek  the  roses  of  eighteen ;  , 
Practised  to  lisp,  and  hang  the  head  aside, 
Faints  into  airs,  and  languishes  with  pride ; 


134  HAND-BOOK   OF  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

On  the  rich  quilt  sinks  with  becoming  woe, 
Wrapped  in  a  gown,  for  sickness,  and  for  show. 
The  fair  ones  feel  such  maladies  as  these, 
When  each  new  night-dress  gives  a  new  disease. 

A  constant  vapor  o'er  the  palace  flies. 
Strange  phantoms  rising  as  the  mists  arise. 
Dreadful,  as  hermits'  dreams  in  haunted  shades, 
Or  bright,  as  visions  of  expiring  maids. 
Now  glaring  fiends,  and  snakes  on  rolling  spires, 
Pale  spectres,  gaping  tombs,  and  purple  fires  : 
Now  lakes  of  liquid  gold,  Elysian  scenes. 
And  crystal  domes,  and  angels  in  machines. 

Safe  passed  the  gnome  through  this  fantastic  land, 
A  branch  of  healing  spleenwort  in  his  hand, 
Then  thus  addressed  the  power :  "  Hail,  wayward  queen  ! 
Who  rule  the  sex  to  fifty  from  fifteen. 
Parent  of  vapors  and  of  female  wit, 
Who  give  the  hysteric  or  poetic  fit. 
On  various  tempers  act  by  various  ways, 
Make'  some  take  physic,  others  scribble  plays. 
A  nymph  there  is  that  all  thy  power  disdains. 
And  thousands  more  in  equal  mirth  maintains. 
But  O,  if  e'er  thy  gnome  could  spoil  a  grace, 
Or  raise  a  pimple  on  a  beauteous  face. 
Like  citron-waters  matrons'  cheeks  inflame, 
Or  change  complexions  at  a  losing  game  ; 

Hear  me,  and  touch  Behnda  with  chagrin  ; 
That  single  act  gives  half  the  world  the  spleen." 

The  goddess  with  a  discontented  air 
Seems  to  reject  him,  though  she  grants  his  prayer. 
A  wondrous  bag  with  both  her  hands  she  binds. 
Like  that  where  once  Ulysses  held  the  winds  ; 
There  she  collects  the  force  of  female  lungs. 
Sighs,  sobs,  and  passions,  and  the  war  of  tongues. 
A  vial  next  she  fills  with  fainting  fears. 
Soft  sorrows,  melting  griefs,  and  flowing  tears. 
The  gnome  rejoicing  bears  her  gifts  away. 
Spreads  his  black  wings,  and  slowly  mounts  to  day. 


ALEXANDER   POPE. 

Sunk  in  Thalestris'  arms  the  nymph  he  found, 
Her  eyes  dejected,  and  her  hair  unbound. 
Full  o'er  their  heads  the  swelling  bag  he  rent, 
And  all  the  Furies  issued  at  the  vent. 
Belinda  burns  with  more  than  mortal  ire. 
And  fierce  Thalestris  fans  the  rising  fire. 
"  O  wretched  maid  !  "  she  spread  her  hands,  and  cried 
(While  Hampton's  echoes,  "  Wretched  maid  !  "  replied), 
"  Was  it  for  this  you  took  such  constant  care 
The  bodkin,  comb,  and  essence,  to  prepare  ? 
For  this  your  locks  in  paper  durance  bound  ? 
For  this  with  torturing  irons  wreathed  around  ? 
For  this  with  fillets  strained  your  tender  head, 
And  bravely  bore  the  double  loads  of  lead  ? 
Gods  !  shall  the  ravisher  display  your  hair, 
While  the  fops  envy,  and  the  ladies  stare  ! 
Honor  forbid  !  at  whose  unrivalled  shrine 
Ease,  pleasure,  virtue,  all  our  sex  resign. 
Methinks  already  I  your  tears  survey, 
Already  hear  the  horrid  things  they  say ; 
Already  see  you  a  degraded  toast. 
And  all  your  honor  in  a  whisper  lost : 
How  shall  I,  then,  your  hapless  fame  defend  ? 
'Twill  then  be  infamy  to  seem  your  friend ! 
And  shall  this  prize,  the  inestimable  prize, 
Exposed  through  crystal  to  the  gazing  eyes, 
And  heightened  by  the  diamond's  circling  rays, 
On  that  rapacious  hand  forever  blaze  ? 
Sooner  shall  grass  in  Hyde  Park  Circus  grow. 
And  wits  take  lodgings  in  the  sound  of  Bow : 
Sooner  let  earth,  air,  sea,  to  chaos  fall, 
Men,  monkeys,  lap-dogs,  parrots,  perish  all !  '* 

She  said  ;  then  raging  to  Sir  Plume  repairs, 
And  bids  her  beau  demand  the  precious  hairs. 

"  It  grieves  me  much,"  replied  the  peer  again, 
"  Who  speaks  so  well  should  ever  speak  in  vain. 
But  by  this  lock,  this  sacred  lock,  I  swear 
(Which  never  more  shall  join  its  parted  hair ; 
Which  never  more  its  honors  shall  renew, 
Clipped  from  the  lovely  head  where  late  it  grew), 


135 


136  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

That  while  my  nostrils  draw  the  vital  air, 
This  hand,  which  won  it,  shall  forever  wear. 
He  spoke,  and  speaking,  in  proud  triumph  spread 
The  long-contended  honors  of  her  head." 

But  Umbriel,  hateful  gnome  !  forbears  not  so ; 
He  breaks  the  vial  whence  the  sorrows  flow. 
Then  see  !  the  nymph  in  beauteous  grief  appears, 
Her  eyes  half  languishing,  half  drowned  in  tears  ; 
On  her  heaved  bosom  hung  her  drooping  head. 
Which  with  a  sigh  she  raised  ;  and  thus  she  said :  — 

"  Forever  cursed  be  this  detested  day. 
Which  snatched  my  best,  my  favorite  curl  away  ! 
Happy  !  ah,  ten  times  happy  had  I  been. 
If  Hampton  Court  these  eyes  had  never  seen  ! 
Yet  am  not  I  the  first  mistaken  maid. 
By  love  of  courts  to  numerous  ills  betrayed. 
O,  had  I  rather  unadmired  remained 
In  some  lone  isle,  or  distant  northern  land, 
Where  the  gilt  chariot  never  marks  the  way. 
Where  none  learn  ombre,  none  e'er  taste  Bohea  ! 
There  kept  my  charms  concealed  from  mortal  eye. 
Like  roses  that  in  deserts  bloom  and  die. 
What  moved  my  mind  with  youthful  lords  to  roam  ? 
O,  had  I  staid,  and  said  my  prayers  at  home  I 
'Twas  this  the  morning  omens  seemed  to  tell ; 
Thrice  from  my  trembling  hand  the  patch-box  fell ; 
The  tottering  china  shook  without  a  wind  ; 
Nay,  Poll  sat  mute,  and  Shock  was  most  unkind  I 
A  sylph,  too,  warned  me  of  the  threats  of  fate, 
In  mystic  visions,  now  believed  too  late  ! 
See  the  poor  remnants  of  these  slighted  hairs  ! 
My  hands  shall  rend  what  even  thy  rapine  spares : 
These,  in  two  sable  ringlets  taught  to  break, 
Once  gave  new  beauties  to  the  snowy  neck  : 
The  sister-lock  now  sits  uncouth,  alone. 
And  in  its  fellow's  fate  foresees  its  own  ; 
Uncurled  it  hangs  j  the  fatal  shears  demands. 
And  tempts,  once  more,  thy  sacrilegious  hands. 
O,  hadst  thou,  cruel !  been  content  to  seize 
Hairs  less  in  sight,  or  any  hairs  but  these  I  " 


ALEXANDER  POPE.  13/ 


CANTO  V. 


She  said  :  the  pitying  audience  melt  in  tears  ; 
But  Fate  and  Jove  had  stopped  the  baron's  ears. 
In  vain  Thalestris  with  reproach  assails, 
For  who  can  move  when  fair  Belinda  fails  ? 
Not  half  so  fixed  the  Trojan  could  remain, 
While  Anna  begged  and  Dido  raged  in  vain. 

"  To  arms,  to  arms  !  "  the  fierce  virago  cries, 
And  swift  as  lightning  to  the  combat  flies. 
All  side  in  parties  and  begin  the  attack ; 
Fans  clap,  silks  rustle,  and  tough  whalebones  crack ; 
Heroes'  and  heroines'  shouts  confusedly  rise, 
And  bass  and  treble  voices  strike  the  skies. 
No  common  weapons  in  their  hands  are  found ; 
Like  gods  they  fight,  nor  dread  a  mortal  wound. 

So  when  bold  Homer  makes  the  gods  engage, 
And  heavenly  breasts  with  human  passions  rage ; 
'Gainst  Pallas,  Mars  ;  Latona,  Hermes  arms  ; 
And  all  Olympus  rings  with  loud  alarms  : 
Jove's  thunder  roars,  heaven  trembles  all  around. 
Blue  Neptune  storms,  the  bellowing  deeps  resound : 
Earth  shakes  her  nodding  towers,  the  ground  gives  way, 
And  the  pale  ghosts  start  at  the  flash  of  day  ! 

Triumphant  Umbriel,  on  a  sconce's  height. 
Clapped  his  glad  wings,  and  sate  to  view  the  fight : 
Propped  on  their  bodkin  spears,  the  sprites  survey 
The  growing  combat,  or  assist  the  fray. 

While  through  the  press  enraged  Thalestris  flies, 
And  scatters  death  around  from  both  her  eyes, 
A  beau  and  witling  perished  in  the  throng ; 
One  died  in  metaphor,  and  one  in  song. 
"  O,  cruel  nymph  !  a  hving  death  I  bear  !  " 
Cried  Dapperwit,  and  sunk  beside  his  chair. 
A  mournful  glance  Sir  Fopling  upwards  cast : 
"  Those  eyes  are  made  so  killing !  "  was  his  last. 
Thus  on  Maeander's  flowery  margin  lies 
The  expiring  swan,  and  as  he  sings  he  dies. 

When  bold  Sir  Plume  had  drawn  Clarissa  down, 
Chloe  stepped  in,  and  killed  him  with  a  frown  ; 


1 38  HAND-BOOK   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

She  smiled  to  see  the  doughty  hero  slain, 
But  at  her  smile  the  beau  revived  again. 

Now  Jove  suspends  his  golden  scales  in  air, 
Weighs  the  men's  wits  against  the  lady's  hair ; 
The  doubtful  beam  long  nods  from  side  to  side ; 
At  length  the  wits  mount  up,  the  hairs  subside. 

See  !  fierce  Belinda  on  the  baron  flies, 
With  more  than  usual  lightning  in  her  eyes : 
Nor  feared  the  chief  the  unequal  fight  to  try. 
Who  sought  no  more  than  on  his  foe  to  die. 
But  this  bold  lord,  with  manly  strength  endued. 
She  with  one  finger  and  a  thumb  subdued : 
Just  where  the  breath  of  life  his  nostrils  drew, 
A  charge  of  snuff  the  wily  virgin  threw  ; 
The  gnomes  direct,  to  every  atom  just, 
The  pungent  grains  of  titillating  dust. 
Sudden  with  starting  tears  each  eye  o'erflows, 
And  the  high  dome  re-echoes  to  his  nose. 

"  Now  meet  thy  fate  !  "  incensed  Belinda  criedy 
And  drew  a  deadly  bodkin  from  her  side. 
(The  same,  his  ancient  personage  to  deck. 
Her  great-great-grands  ire  wore  about  his  neck. 
In  three  seal-rings  ;  which  after,  melted  down. 
Formed  a  vast  buckle  for  his  widow's  gown  : 
Her  infant  grandam's  whistle  next  it  grew. 
The  bells  she  jingled,  and  the  whistle  blew  ; 
Then  in  a  bodkin  graced  her  mother's  hairs, 
Which  long  she  wore,  and  now  Belinda  wears.) 

"  Boast  not  my  fall,"  he  cried,  "  insulting  foe  ! 
Thou  by  some  other  shalt  be  laid  as  low. 
Nor  think,  to  die  dejects  my  lofty  mind  ; 
All  that  I  dread  is  leaving  you  behind ! 
Rather  than  so,  ah  !  let  me  still  survive, 
And  burn  in  Cupid's  flames  —  but  burn  ahve." 

"  Restore  the  lock  !  "  she  cries  ;  and  all  around, 
"  Restore  the  lock  !  "  the  vaulted  roofs  rebound. 
Not  fierce  Othello,  in  so  loud  a  strain. 
Roared  for  the  handkerchief  that  caused  his  pain. 
But  see  how  oft  ambitious  aims  are  crossed, 
And  chiefs  contend  till  all  the  prize  is  lost ! 
The  lock,  obtained  with  guilt,  and  kept  with  pain. 


ALEXANDER   POPE.  139 

/n  every  place  is  sought,  but  sought  in  vain : 

With  such  a  prize  no  mortal  must  be  blest : 

So  Heaven  decrees  !  with  Heaven  who  can  contest  ? 

Some  thought  it  mounted  to  the  lunar  sphere, 
Since  all  things  lost  on  earth  are  treasured  there. 
There  heroes'  wits  are  kept  in  ponderous  vases, 
And  beaux'  in  snuff-boxes  and  tweezer-cases  ; 
There  broken  vows  and  death-bed  alms  are  found, 
And  lovers'  hearts  with  ends  of  ribbon  bound, 
The  courtier's  promises,  and  sick  men's  prayers, 
The  smiles  of  harlots,  and  the  tears  of  heirs, 
Cages  for  gnats,  and  chains  to  yoke  a  flea. 
Dried  butterflies,  and  tomes  of  casuistry. 

But  trust  the  Muse  —  she  saw  it  upward  rise, 
Though  marked  by  none  but  quick,  poetic  eyes. 
(So  Rome's  great  founder  to  the  heavens  withdrew, 
To  Proculus  alone  confessed  in  view.) 
A  sudden  star,  it  shot  through  liquid  air. 
And  drew  behind  a  radiant  trail  of  hair. 
Not  Berenice's  locks  first  rose  so  bright, 
The  heavens  bespangling  with  dishevelled  light. 
The  sylphs  behold  it  kindling  as  it  flies. 
And  pleased  pursue  its  progress  through  the  skies. 

Then  cease,  bright  nymph,  to  mourn  thy  ravished  hair, 
Which  adds  new  glory  to  the  shining  sphere  ! 
Not  all  the  tresses  that  fair  heads  can  boast 
Shall  draw  such  envy  as  the  lock  you  lost. 
For  after  all  the  murders  of  your  eye  ; 
When,  after  millions  slain,  -yourself  shall  die ; 
When  those  fair  suns  shall  set,  as  set  they  must, 
And  all  those  tresses  shall  be  laid  in  dust,  — 
This  lock  the  Muse  shall  consecrate  to  fame, 
And  'midst  the  stars  inscribe  Belinda's  name.  ' 


I40 


HAND-BOOK   OF  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 


JOHN   GAY. 

John  Gay  was  born  in  1688.  It  does  not  appear  that  he  had  the  advantage  of  a  classical 
education.  He  is  chiefly  noted  for  his  successful  burlesques  of  pastoral  poetry  and  of  the 
Italian  opera,  and  for  his  fables.  When  Italian  music  was  first  introduced  into  London,  the 
success  of  the  Beggars'  Opera,  in  which  thieves,  male  and  female,  were  the  leading  characters, 
turned  the  tide  of  popular  favor  to  English  drama  enlivened  by  music.  Probably  there  was 
never  a  more  ignoble  victory  of  senseless  prejudice  over  cultivated  taste  ;  but  the  effects  of 
the  onslaught  upon  the  only  correct  style  of  vocalism  are  still  visible  in  the  notions  of  un- 
cultivated Englishmen,  many  of  whom  suppose  that  English  opera  is  the  flower  of  musical 
art  The  fables  of  Gay  are  full  of  good  points,  —  well  rhymed,  and  conveying  the  moral  that 
knowledge  of  the  world  suggests.  Very  few  of  his  poems  can  be  read  at  this  day,  however, 
without  expurgation.     He  lived  a  luxurious  life,  and  died  at  the  early  age  of  forty-four. 


/^X 


THE   FOX. 

A  Fox,  in  life's  extreme  decay, 
Weak,  sick,  and  faint,  expiring  lay ; 
All  appetite  had  left  his  maw, 
And  age  disarmed  his  mumbling  jaw. 
His  numerous  race  around  him  stand, 
To  learn  their  dying  sire's  command : 
He  raised  his  head  with  whining  moan, 
And  thus  was  heard  the  feeble  tone  : 
"  Ah,  sons,  from  evil  ways  depart ; 
My  crimes  lie  heavy  on  my  heart. 
See,  see  the  murdered  geese  appear  ! 
Why  are  those  bleeding  turkeys  there  1 
Why  all  around  this  cackling  train. 
Who  haunt  my  ears  for  chicken  slain  ?  " 
The  hungry  foxes  round  them  stared, 
And  for  the  promised  feast  prepared : 
"  Where,  s\i ^  is  all  this  dainty  cheer  1 
Nor  turkey,  goose,  nor  hen,  is  here. 
These  are  the  phantoms  of  your  brain, 
And  your  sons  Hck  their  hps  in  vain." 
"  O,  gluttons  !  "  says  the  drooping  sire  ; 
y  C(^  "  Restrain  inordinate  desire  : 
J       J;  :  Youi^liquorish  taste  you  shall  deplore, 
^^^'^  //When  peace  of  conscience  is  no  more, 
y    Does  not  the  hound  betray  our  pace, 
t/fn^tA^t'O  And^ns  and  guns  destroy  our  race  ? 

"^      .^.Thieves  dread  the  searching  eye  of  power, 
And  never  feel  the  quiet  hour. 


JOHN   GAY.  141 

Old  age  (which  few  of  us  shall  know) 

Now  puts  a  period  to  my  woe. 

Would  you  true  happiness  attain, 

Let  honesty  your  passions  rein  ; 

So  hve  in  credit  and  esteem, 

And  the  good  name  you  lost  redeem." 

"The  counsel's  good,"  a  Fox  repHes, 

"  Could  we  perform  what  you  advise. 

Think  what  our  ancestors  have  done  ; 

A  line  of  thieves  from  son  to  son  : 

To  us  descends  the  long  disgrace, 

And  infamy  hath  marked  our  race. 

Though  we,  like  harmless  sheep,  should  feed, 

Honest  in  thought,  in  word,  and  deed, 

Whatever  hen-roost  is  decreased  ; 

We  shall  be  thought  to  share  the  feast. 

The  change  shall  never  be  believed. 

A  lost  good  name  is  ne'er  retrieved. 

"  Nay,  then,"  replies  the  feeble  Fox  — 

"  But,  hark  !  I  hear  a  hen  that  clocks  : 

Go,  but  be  moderate  in  your  food  ; 

A  chicken,  too,  might  do  me  good." 


THE  SHEPHERD'S  DOG. 

A  shepherd's  Dog,  unskilled  in  sports, 
Picked  up  acquaintance  of  all  sorts  ; 
Amongst  the  rest  a  Fox  he  knew  ; 
By  frequent  chat  their  friendship  grew. 
Says  Reynard,  "  'Tis  a  cruel  case. 
That  man  should  stigmatize  our  race. 
No  doubt  amongst  us  rogues  you  find, 
As  among  dogs  and  human  kind ; 
And  yet  (unknown  to  me  and  you) 
There  may  be  honest  men  and  true. 
Thus  slander  tries  whate'er  it  can 
To  put  us  on  the  foot  with  man. 
Let  my  own  actions  recommend  ; 
No  prejudice  can  blind  a  friend  ; 
You  know  me  free  from  all  disguise  ; 
My  honor  as  my  life  I  prize." 


142  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

By  talk  like  this,  from  all  mistrust 

The  Dog  was  cured,  and  thought  him  just. 

As  on  a  time  the  Fox  held  forth 

On  coiiscience,  honesty,  and  worth. 

Sudden  he  stopped  ;  he  cocked  his  ear  ; 

Low  dropped  his  brushy  tail  with  fear. 

"  Bless  us  !  the  hunters  are  abroad  ; 

What's  all  that  clatter  on  the  road  ? " 

"  Hold,"  says  the  Dog,  "  we're  safe  from  harm, 

'Twas  nothing  but  a  false  alarm  : 

At  yonder  town  'tis  market-day  ; 

Some  farmer's  wife  is  on  the  way  ; 

'Tis  so,  (I  know  her  piebald  mare)  —  » 

Dame  Dobbins  with  her  poultry- ware." 

Reynard  grew  huff.     Says  he,  "  This  sneer 

From  you  I  little  thought  to  hear ; 

Your  meaning  in  your  looks  I  see  : 

Pray,  what's  Dame  Dobbins,  friend,  to  me  ? 

Did  I  e'er  make  her  poultry  thinner  ? 

Prove  that  I  owe  the  dame  a  dinner." 

"  Friend,"  quoth  the  Cur,  "  I  meant  no  harm ; 

Then  why  so  captious  ?  why  so  warm  ? 

My  words,  in  common  acceptation, 

Could  never  give  this  provocation. 

No  lamb  (for  aught  I  ever  knew) 

May  be  more  innocent  than  you." 

At  this,  galled  Reynard  winced  and  swore  — 

Such  language  ne'er  was  given  before. 

What's  lamb  to  me  ?     This  saucy  hint 

Shows  me,  base  knave,  which  way  youf^^squint. 

If  th'  other  night  your  master  lost 

Three  lambs,  am  I  to  pay  the  cost  ? 

Your  vile  reflections  would  imply 

That  I'm  the  thief.     You  dog,  you  lie." 

"  Thou  knave,  thou  fool,"  the  Dog  replied, 

"  The  name  is  just ;  take  either  side  ; 

Thy  guilt  these  applications  speak  : 

Sirrah,  'tis  conscience  makes  you  squeak." 

So  saying,  on  the  Fox  he  flies  ; 

The  self-convicted  felon  dies. 


LADY  MARY  WORTLEY  MONTAGU.  143 


LADY  MARY  WORTLEY  MONTAGU. 

Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montagu,  the  eldest  daughter  of  the  Duke  of  Kingston,  was  bom  in 
1690.  She  was  married  at  the  age  of  twenty-two,  and  accompanied  her  husband  to  Con- 
stantinople upon  his  appointment  as  ambassador.  She  subsequently  left  her  husband,  and 
resided  in  the  East,  though  she  still  kept  up  her  English  acquaintances,  and  wrote  home 
the  splendid  letters  by  which  her  name  has  been  preserved.  In  vigor  of  thought,  ease,  and 
naturalness  of  expression,  and  purity  of  style,  they  are  not  exceeded  by  any  similar  cor- 
respondence in  the  language.  In  one  of  the  letters  of  Horace  Walpole  (printed  in  this 
volume),  a  graphic  picture  of  her  personal  appearance  is  given.  Her  wit  and  learning  are 
visible  in  every  line  she  has  written  ;  her  excellences  as  a  wife  and  a  mother  are  not  so  con- 
spicuous.    She  died  in  1761. 

LETTER   VL  —  TO   MR.    POPE. 

I  AM  at  this  present  moment  writing  in  a  house  situated  on  the 
banks  of  the  Hebrus,  which  runs  under  my  chamber  window.     My 
garden   is   all  full  of  cypress   trees,  upon  the  branches  of  which 
several  couple  of  true   turtles   are  saying   soft  things  to  one  an- 
other from  morning  till  night.     How  naturally  do  boughs  and  vows 
,        .    come  into  my  mind  at  this  minute  !     And  must  not  you  confess,  to 
^^^  my  praise,  that  'tis  more  than  an  ordinary  discretion  that  can  resist 
/,y^^^'-the  wicked  suggestions  of  poetry,  in  a  place  where  truth,  for  once, 
/    /^    furnishes  all  the  ideas  of  pastoral  ?     The  summer  is  already  far 
ry       advanced   in   this   part  of  the  world  ;   and  for  some  miles  round 
f  i^«     Adrianople,  the  whole  ground  is  laid  out  in  gardens,  and  the  banks 
of  the  rivers  are  set  with  rows  of  fruit  trees,  under  which  all  the 
most  considerable  Turks  divert  tliemselves  every  evening ;  not  with 
walking,  —  that  is  not  one  of  their  pleasures,  — but  a  set  party  of  them 
choose  out  a  green  spot,  where  the  shade  is  very  thick,  and  there 
they  spread  a  carpet,  on  which  they  sit  drinking  their  coflfee,  and  are 
generally  attended  by  some  slave  with  a  fine  voice,  or  that  plays  on 
some  instrument.     Every  twenty  paces  you  may  see  one  of  these 
little  companies  listening  to  the  dashing  of  the  river ;  and  this  taste 
is  so  universal  that  the  very  gardeners  are  not  without  it.     I  have 
often  seen  them  and  their  children  sitting  on  the  banks  of  the  river, 
and  playing  on  a  mral  instrument,  perfectly  answering  the  descrip- 
tion of  the  2iVi.€\tnv fistula^  being  composed  of  unequal  reeds,  with  a 
simple  but  agreeable  softness  in  the  sound. 

Mr.  Addison  might  here  make  the  experiment  he  speaks  of  in  his 
travels  ;  there  not  being  one  instrument  of  music  among  the  Greek 


'/./- 


144  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

or  Roman  statues,  that  is  not  to  be  found  in  the  hands  of  the  people 

of  this  country.     The  young  lads  generally  divert  themselves  with 

making  garlands  for  their  favorite  lambs,  which  I  have  often  seen 

painted  and  adorned  with  flowers,  lying  at  their  feet  while  they  sung 

or  played.     It  is  not  that  they  ever  read  romances,  but  these  are  the 

ancient  amusements  here,  and  as  natural  to  them  as  cudgel-playing 

and  foot-ball  to  our  British  swains  ;  the  softness  and  warmth  of  the 

climate  forbidding  all  rough  exercises,  which  were  never  so  much  as 

^^/tl^heard  of  among  them,  and  naturally  inspiring  a  laziness  and  aversion 

to  labor,  which  the  great  plenty  indulges.     These  gardeners  are  the 

only  happy  race  of  country  people  in  Turkey.     They  furnish  all  the 

■  ",'         city  with  fruits  and  herbs,  and  seem  to  live  very  easily.     They  are 

i      ;;  ^most  of  them  Greeks,  and  have  little  houses  in  the  midst  of  their 

gardens,  where  their  wives  and  daughters  take  a  liberty  not  per- 

,ti  -V  ^         mitted,  in  the  town,  I   mean,  to  go  unveiled.     These  wenches  are 

"^^'^^  -  very  neat  and  handsome,  and  pass  their  time  at  their  looms  under 

/  '    /      the  shade  of  the  trees,    ^j 

^Cf'^^/v  I  no  longer  look  upon  Theocritus  as  a  romantic  writer;  he  has 

only  given   a  plain  image  of  the  way  of  life  among  the  peasants 

of  his  country  ;  who,  before  oppression  had  reduced  them  to  want, 

were,  I  suppose,  all  employed  as  the  better  sort  of  them  are  now. 

I  don't  doubt,  had  he  been  born  a  Briton,  but  his  Idylliuins  had 

been  filled  with  descriptions  of  thrashing  and  churning,  both  which 

'     are  unknown  here,  the  corn  being  all  trodden  out  by  oxen  ;  and 

butter^!— I  speak  it  with  sorrow  —  unheard  of. 

I  read  over  your  Homer  here  with  an  infinite  pleasure,  and  find 
several  little  passages  explained  that  I  did  not  before  entirely  com- 
prehend the  beauty  of;  many  of  the  customs,  and  much  of  the  dress 
then  in  fashion,  being  yet  retained.  I  don't  wonder  to  find  more 
remains  here  of  an  age  so  distant  than  is  to  be  found  in  any  other 
country,  the  Turks  not  taking  that  pains  to  introduce  their  own 
manners  as  has  been  generally  practised  by  other  nations,  that 
imagine  themselves  more  polite.  It  would  be  too  tedious  to  you  to 
point  out  all  the  passages  that  relate  to  present  customs.  But  I  can 
assure  you  that  the  princesses  and  great  ladies  pass  their  time  at 
their  looms,  embroidering  veils  and  robes,  surrounded  by  their 
maids,  which  are  always  very  numerous,  in  the  same  manner  as  we 
find  Andromache  and  Helen  described.  The  description  of  the  belt 
of  Menelaus  exactly  resembles  those  that  are  now  worn  by  the  great 
men,  fastened  before  with  broad  golden  clasps,  and  embroidered 


1         LADY  MARY  WORTLEY  MONTAGU.  145 

round  with  rich  work.  The  snowy  veil  that  Helen  throws^c^ver  her 
face  is  still  fashionable  ;  and  I  never  see  half  a  dozen  of  old  bashaws 
(as  I  do  very  often),  with  their  reverend  beards,  sitting  basking  in 
the  sun,  but  I  recollect  good  King'rriam  and  his  counsellors.  Their 
manner  of  dancing  is  certainly  the  same  that  Diana  is  sung  to  have 
danced  on  the  banks  of  Eurotas.  The  great  lady  still  leads  the 
dance,  and  is  followed  by  a  troop  of  young  girls,  who  imitate  her 
steps,  and,  if  she  sing,  make  up  the  chorus.  The  tunes  are  extreme- 
ly gay  and  lively,  yet  with  something  in  them  wonderfully  soft.  The 
steps  are  varied  according  to  the  j^leasure  of  her  that  leads  the 
dance,  but  always  in  exact  time,  and  infinitely  more  agreeable  than 
any  of  our  dances,  at  least  in  my  opinion.  I  sometimes  make  one  in 
the  train,  but  am  not  skilful  enough  to  lead ;  these  are  the  Grecian 
dances,  the  Turkish  being  very  diiferent. 

PASSAGES   FROM    LETTER   XV. 

I  LEFT  Constantinople  the  sixth  of  the  last  month,  and  this  is  the 
first  post  from  whence  I  could  send  a  letter,  though  I  have  often 
wished  for  the  opportunity,  that  I  might  impart  some  of  the  pleasure  I 
found  in  this  voyage  through  the  most  agreeable  part  of  the  world, 
where  every  scene  presents  me  some  poetical  idea. 

Warmed  with  poetic  transport,  I  survey 
The  immortal  islands,  and  the  well-known  sea ; 
For  here  so  oft  the  muse  her  harp  has  strung, 
That  not  a  mountain  rears  its  head  unsung. 

We  saw  very  plainly  from  this  promontory  (Sigeum)  the  river  Si- 
mois  rolling  from  Mount  Ida,  and  running  through  a  very  spacious 
valley.  It  is  now  a  considerable  river,  and  is  called  Simores  ;  it  is 
joined  in  the  vale  by  the  Scamander,  which  appeared  a  small  stream 
half  choked  with  mud,  but  is,  perhaps,  large  in  the  winter.  This 
was  ^anthus  among  the  gods,  as  Homer  tells  us  ;  and  'tis  by  that 
heavenly  name  the  nymph  CEnone  invokes  it  in  her  epistle  to  Paris. 

All  that  is  now  left  of  Troy  is  the  ground  on  which  it  stood  ;  for 
I  am  fully  persuaded,  whatever  pieces  of  antiquity  may  be  found 
round  it  are  much  more  modern,  and  I  think  Strabo  says  the  same 
thing.  However,  there  is  some  pleasure  in  seeing  the  valley  where 
I  imagined  the  famous  duel  of  Menelaus  and  Paris  had  been  fought, 
and  where  the  greatest  city  in  the  world  was  situated.  'Tis  certain- 
ly the  noblest  situation  that  can  be  found  for  the  head  of  a  great  em- 

10 


146  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

pire,  much  to  be  preferred  to  that  of  Constantinople,  the  harbor 
here  being  always  convenient  for  ships  from  all  parts  of  the  world, 
and  that  of  Constantinople  inaccessible  almost  six  months  in  the 
year,  while  the  north  wind  reigns. 

North  of  the  promontory  of  Sigeum  we  saw  that  of  Rhceteum, 
famed  for  the  sepulchre  of  Ajax.  While  I  viewed  these  celebrated 
fields  and  rivers,  I  admired  the  exact  geography  of  Homer,  whom  I 
had  in  my  hand.  Almost  every  epithet  he  gives  to  a  mountain  or 
plain  is  still  just  for  it ;  and  I  spent  several  hours  here  in  as  agreea- 
ble cogitations  as  ever  Don  Quixote  had  on  Mount  Montesinos. 

We  passed  Trinacria  without  hearing  any  of  the  sirens  that  Homer 
describes  ;  and,  being  thrown  on  neither  Scylla  nor  Charybdis,  came 
safe  to  Malta,  first  called  Mehta,  from  the  abundance  of  honey.  It  is 
a  whole  rock  covered  with  very  little  earth.  The  Grand  Master  lives 
here  in  the  state  of  a  sovereign  prince  ;  but  his  strength  at  sea  now 
is  very  small.  The  fortifications  are  reckoned  the  best  in  the  world  — 
all  cut  in  the  solid  rock,  with  infinite  expense  and  labor.  Off  this  island 
we  were  tossed  by  a  severe  storm,  and  were  very  glad,  after  eight  days, 
to  be  able  to  put  into  Porta  Farine,  on  the  African  shore,  where  our 
ship  now  rides.  At  Tunis  we  were  met  by  the  English  consul  who  re- 
sides there.  I  readily  accepted  of  the  offer  of  his  house  for  some  days, 
being  very  curious  to  see  this  part  of  the  world,  and  particularly  the 
ruins  of  Carthage.  I  set  out  in  his  chaise  at  nine  at  night,  the  moon 
being  at  full.  I  saw  the  prospect  of  the  country  almost  as  well  as  I 
could  have  done  by  daylight ;  and  the  heat  of  the  sun  is  now  so  in- 
tolerable, 'tis  impossible  to  travel  at  any  other  time. 

About  six  miles  from  Tunis,  we  saw  the  remains  of  that  noble 
aqueduct,  which  carried  the  water  to  Carthage  over  several  high 
mountains,  the  length  of  forty  miles.  There  are  still  many  arches 
entire.  We  spent  two  hours  viewing  it  with  great  attention,  and 
Mr.  Wortley  assured  me  that  of  Rome  is  very  much  inferior  to  it. 
The  stones  are  of  a  prodigious  size,  and  yet  all  poHshed,  and  so  ex- 
actly fitted  to  each  other,  very  little  cement  has  been  made  use  of  to 
join  them.  Yet  they  may  probably  stand  a  thousand  years  longer, 
if  art  is  not  made  use  of  to  pull  them  down. 

I  went  very  early  yesterday  morning  (after  one  night's  repose)  to 
see  the  ruins  of  Carthage.  I  was,  however,  half  broiled  in  the  sun, 
and  overjoyed  to  be  led  into  one  of  the  subterranean  apartments, 


JAMES   THOMSON.  147 

which  they  called  The  Stables  of  the  Elephants,  but  which  I  can- 
not believe  were  ever  designed  for  that  use.  I  found  in  them  many 
broken  pieces  of  columns  of  fine  marble,  and  some  of  porphyry.  I 
cannot  think  anybody  would  take  the  insignificant  pains  of  carrying 
them  thither,  and  I  cannot  imagine  such  fine  pillars  were  designed 
for  the  use  of  stables.  I  am  apt  to  believe  they  were  summer  apart- 
ments under  their  palaces,  which  the  heat  of  the  climate  rendered 
necessary.  They  are  now  used  as  granaries  by  the  country  people. 
While  I  sat  here,  from  the  town  of  Tents,  not  far  off,  many  of  the 
women  flocked  in  to  see  me,  and  we  were  equally  entertained  with 
viewing  one  another. 

When  I  was  a  little  refreshed  by  rest,  and  some  milk  and  exquisite 
fruit  they  brought  me,  I  went  up  the  little  hill  where  once  stood  the 
castle  of  Byrsa ;  and  from  thence  I  had  a  distinct  view  of  the  situa- 
tion of  the  famous  city  of  Carthage,  which  stood  on  an  isthmus,  the 
sea  coming  on  each  side  of  it.  'Tis  now  a  marshy  ground  on  one 
side,  where  there  are  salt  ponds.  Strabo  calls  Carthage  forty  miles 
in  circumference.  There  are  now  no  remains  of  it  but  what  I  have 
described  ;  and  the  history  of  it  is  too  well  known- to  want  my  abridg- 
ment of  it. 


JAMES   THOMSON. 

/ames  Thomson  was  bom  in  1700,  and  was  educated  at  Edinburgh.  His  poetical  ten- 
dencies were  manifested  at  a  very  early  age.  He  went  to  London  in  search  of  fortune  and 
fame,  in  which  he  succeeded  better  than  most  literary  adventurers.  He  is  described  as  be- 
ing a  person  of  sterling  worth  and  of  delicate  sensibilities  ;  but  it  is  with  a  certain  feeling  of 
pity  that  we  read  of  his  flattering  the  great  with  dedications  for  guineas  and  a  pension  in 
return.  His  love  forjnature  was  sincere  ;  but  the  style  of  The  Seasons  is  so  cumbrous  and 
stilted  that  we  are  apt  to  think  his  raptures  are  laboriously  pumped  up.  The  Hymn  which 
follows  is  his  best  production,  as  a  whole,  although  some  separate  stanzas  of  the  Castle  of 
Indolence  are  finely  finished.  He  was  the  author  of  several  plays,  none  of  them  success- 
fill,  and  all  now  forgotten.     He  died  at  the  age  of  forty-eight,  having  never  been  married. 

HYMN. 

These,  as  they  change.  Almighty  Father,  these 
-     Are  but  the  varied  God.     The  rolling  year 
""is  full  of  Thee,    Forth  in  the  pleasing  spring 
Thy  beauty  walks.  Thy  tenderness  and  love. 


148  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

Wide  flush  the  fields  ;  the  softening  air  is  balm ; 
Echo  the  mountains  round  ;  the  forest  smiles  ; 
And  every  sense,  and  every  heart,  is  joy. 
Then  comes  Thy  glory  in  the  summer  months. 
With  light  and  heat  refulgent.     Then  Thy  sun 
Shoots  full  perfection  through  the  swelling  year ; 
And  oft  Thy  voice  in  dreadful  thunder  speaks  ; 
And  oft  at  dawn,  deep  noon,  or  falling  eve, 
By  brooks  and  groves,  in  hollow-whispering  gales. 
Thy  bounty  shines  in  autumn  unconfined. 
And  spreads  a  common  feast  for  all  that  lives. 
In  winter  awful  Thou  !  with  clouds  and  storms 
Around  Thee  thrown,  tempest  o'er  tempest  rolled. 
Majestic  darkness  !  on  the  whirlwind's  wing, 
Riding  sublime.  Thou  bidd'st  the  world  adore, 
/  \  ^  ^S   ^^^  humblest  nature  with  Thy  northern  blast : 
/  ^  Mysterious  round  !  what  skill,  what  force  divine, 

X'  ^  ^      L  Deep  felt,  in  these  appear  !  a  simple  train, 
Yet  so  delightful  mixed,  with  such  kind  art, 
Such  beauty  and  beneficence  combined  ; 
Shade,  unperceived,  so  softening  into  shade. 
And  all  so  forming  an  harmonious  whole. 
That,  as  they  still  succeed,  they  ravish  still. 
But  wandering  oft,  with  brute,  unconscious  gaze, 
Man  marks  not  Thee,  marks  not  the  mighty  Hand, 
That,  ever  busy,  wheels  the  silent  spheres  ; 
Works  in  the  secret  deep  ;  shoots,  steaming,  thence 
The  fair  profusion  that  o'erspreads  the  spring ; 
Flings  from  the  sun  direct  the  flaming  day ; 
Feeds  every  creature  ;  hurls  the  tempest  forth  ; 
And,  as  on  earth  this  grateful  change  revolves. 
With  transport  touches  all  the  springs  of  life. 

Nature,  attend  !  join,  every  living  soul, 
Beneath  the  spacious  temple  of  the  sky ; 
In  adoration  join  ;  and,  ardent,  raise 
One  general  song  !     To  Him,  ye  vocal  gales, 
Breathe  soft,  whose  spirit  in  your  freshness  breathes : 
O,  talk  of  Him  in  solitary  glooms  ! 
Where,  o'er  the  rock,  the  scarcely  waving  pine 
Fills  the  brown  shade  with  a  religious  awe. 
And  ye,  whose  bolder  note  is  heard  afar. 


JAMES   THOMSON.  I49 

Who  shake  the  astonished  world,  lift  high  to  Heaven 

The  impetuous  song,  and  say  from  whom  you  rage. 

His  praise,  ye  brooks,  attune,  ye  trembling  rills  ; 

And  let  me  catch  it  as  I  muse  along. 

Ye  headlong  torrents,  rapid  and  profound  ; 

Ye  softer  floods,  that  lead  the  humid  maze 

Along  the  vale  ;  and  thou,  majestic  maiUf^^.Aj^^QC'Ayx^ 

A  secret  world  of  wonders  in  thyself,  ' 

Sound  His  stupendous  praise  ;  whose  greater  voice 

Or  bids  you  roar,  or  bids  your  roarings  fall. 

Soft  roll  your  incense,  herbs,  and  fruits,  and  flowers. 

In  mingled  clouds  to  Him  whose  sun  exalts, 

Whose  breath  perfumes  you,  and  whose  pencil  paints. 

Ye  forests,  bend,  ye  harvests,  wave,  to  Him ; 

Breathe  your  still  song  into  the  reaper's  heart. 

As  home  he  goes  beneath  the  joyous  moon. 

Ye  that  keep  watch  in  heaven,  as  earth  asleep 

Unconscious  lies,  effuse  your  mildest  beams. 

Ye  constellations,  while  your  angels  strike 

Amid  the  spangled  sky  the  silver  lyre. 

Great  source  of  day  !  best  image  here  below 

Of  thy  Creator,  ever  pouring  wide 

From  world  to  world  the  vital  ocean  round. 

On  Nature  write  with  every  beam  His  praise. 

The  thunder  rolls  :  be  hushed  the  prostrate  world, 

While  cloud  to  cloud  returns  the  solemn  hymn. 

Bleat  out  afresh,  ye  hills  :  ye  mossy  rocks, 

Retain  the  sound  :  the  broad  responsive  low. 

Ye  valleys,  raise  ;  for  the  Great  Shepherd  reigns  ; 

And  His  unsuifering  kingdom  yet  will  come. 

Ye  woodlands  all,  awake :  a  boundless  song 

Burst  from  the  groves  ;  and  when  the  restless  day, 

Expiring,  lays  the  warbling  world  asleep. 

Sweetest  of  birds,  sweet  Philomela,  charm 

The  listening  shades,  and  teach  the  night  His  praise. 

Ye  chief,  for  whom  the  whole  creation  smiles. 

At  once  the  head,  the  heart,  and  tongue  of  all. 

Crown  the  great  hymn  ;  in  swarming  cities  vast, 

Assembled  men,  to  the  deep  organ  join 

The  long-resounding  voice,  oft  breaking  clear, 

At  solemn  pauses,  through  the  swelling  bass ; 


I^O  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

And,  as  each  mingling  flame  increases  each, 
In  one  united  ardor  rise  to  Heaven. 
Or,  if  you  rather,  choose  the  rural  shade. 
And  find  a  fane  in  every  sacred  grove  ; 
There  let  the  shepherd's  flute,  the  virgin's  lay, 
The  prompting  seraph,  and  the  poet's  lyre. 
Still  sing  the  God  of  Seasons  as  they  roll ! 
For  me,  when  I  forget  the  darling  theme. 
Whether  the  blossom  blows,  the  summer  ray 
Russets  the  plain,  inspiring  autumn  gleams, 
Or  winter  rises  in  the  blackening  east. 
Be  my  tongue  mute,  may  fancy  paint  no  more. 
And,  dead  to  joy,  forget  my  heart  to  beat ! 

Should  Fate  command  me  to  the  farthest  verge 
Of  the  green  earth,  to  distant  barbarous  climes, 
Rivers  unknown  to  song ;  where  first  the  sun 
Gilds  Indian  mountains,  or  his  setting  beam 
Flames  on  the  Atlantic  isles  ;  'tis  nought  to  me, 
Since  God  is  ever  present,  ever  felt. 
In  the  void  waste  as  in  the  city  full ; 
And  where  He  vital  spreads  there  must  be  joy. 
When  even  at  last  the  solemn  hour  shall  come. 
And  wing  my  mystic  flight  to  future  worlds, 
I  cheerful  will  obey ;  there,  with  new  powers. 
Will  rising  wonders  sing  :   I  cannot  go 
Where  Universal  Love  not  smiles  around, 
Sustaining  all  yon  orbs,  and  all  their  sons, 
From  seeming  evil  still  educing  good, 
And  better  thence  again,  and  better  still. 
In  infinite  progression.     But  I  lose 
Myself  in  Him,  in  Light  ineffable  ! 
Come  then,  expressive  Silence,  muse  His  praise. 

[From  the  Castle  of  Indolence.] 
CANTO   II.      STANZA   III. 

I  CARE  not.  Fortune,  what  you  me  deny : 

You  cannot  rob  me  of  free  Nature's  grace  ; 

You  cannot  shut  the  windows  of  the  sky. 

Through  which  Aurora  shows  her  brightening  face  ; 

You  cannot  bar  my  constant  feet  to  trace 


JAMES   THOMSON.  I5I 

The  woods  and  lawns,  by  living  stream,  at  eve : 
Let  health  my  nerves  and  finer  fibres  brace, 
And  I  their  toys  to  the  great  children  leave  : 
Of  fancy,  reason,  virtue,  nought  can  me  bereave. 

STANZA   XLVIII. 

Come,  to  the  beaming  God  your  hearts  unfold ; 
Draw  from  its  fountain  life  !     'Tis  thence,  alone, 
We  can  excel.     Up  from  unfeeling  mould, 
To  seraphs  burning  round  the  Almighty's  throne, 
Life  rising  still  on  life,  in  higher  tone. 
Perfection  forms,  and  with  perfection  bhss. 
In  universal  nature  this  clear  shown, 
Not  needeth  proof:  to  prove  it  were,  I  wist 
To  prove  the  beauteous  world  excels  the  brute  abyss. 

STANZA   L. 

It  was  not  by  vile  loitering  in  ease 
That  Greece  obtained  the  brighter  palm  of  art ; 
That  soft  yet  ardent  Athens  learned  to  please. 
To  keen  the  wit,  and  to  sublime  the  heart, 
In  all  supreme  !  complete  in  every  part ! 
It  was  not  thence  majestic  Rome  afose. 
And  o'er  the  nations  shook  her  conquering  dart ; 
For  sluggard's  brow  the  laurel  never  grows ; 
Renown  is  not  the  child  of  indolent  Repose. 

STANZA   LVIII. 

Some  he  will  lead  to  courts,  and  some  to  camps  ; 
To  senates  some,  and  public  sage  debates. 
Where,  by  the  solemn  gleam  of  midnight  lamps, 
The  world  is  poised,  and  managed  mighty  states  ; 
To  high  discovery  some,  that  new  creates 
The  face  of  earth  ;  some  to  the  thriving  mart ; 
Some  to  the  rural  reign  and  softer  fates  ; 
To  the  sweet  Muses  some,  who  raise  the  heart : 
All  glory  shall  be  yours,  all  nature,  and  all  art ! 


152  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 


HENRY  FIELDING. 

Henry  Fielding,  the  son  of  Lieutenant  General  Fielding,  and  a  descendant  of  the  Earls 
of  Denbigh,  was  born  in  Somersetshire  in  1707.  He  was  educated  at  Eton,  and  afterwards 
studied  civil  law  at  Leyden.  He  was  compelled  at  an  early  age  to  rely  upon  his  own 
resources,  and  was  called  to  the  bar  in  London  ;  but  although  he  appears  to  have  been  a 
good  lawyer,  he  was  not  successful  in  obtaining  a  lucrative  practice,  and  he  supplied  liis 
wants  by  writing  comedies  and  farces.  Later  in  life  he  was  a  contributor  to  the  newspaper 
press.  But  his  fame  rests  on  his  novels,  which  are,  in  many  respects,  the  best  ever  writ- 
ten. They  are,  Joseph  Andrews,  a  burlesque  upon  the  tedious  Richardson's  Pamela, 
Amelia,  and  Tom  Jonas.  They  are  admirable  pictures  of  English  society,  unequalled 
in  the  knowledge  of  human  nature  they  display,  charmingly  simple  in  style,  and  abound- 
\ngin  wit  and  in  a  certain  quaint  humor.  Cervantes  was  the  model  the  author  has  followed. 
jtnd  it  is  a  question  whether  even  Don  Quixote,  though  more  imaginative,  is,  on  the  whole, 
a  greater  work  than  Tom  Jones. 

The  illustrious  Gibbon  thus  speaks  of  him  :  "Our  immortal  Fielding  was  of  the  you:iger 
branch  of  the  Earls  of  Denbigh,  who  drew  their  origin  from  the  Counts  of  Hapsburg.  .  .  , 
The  successors  of  Charles  V.  may  disdain  their  brethren  of  England,  but  the  romance  of 
Tom  Jones,  that  exquisite  picture  of  human  manners,  will  outlive  the  palace  of  the  Escii- 
rial  and  the  imperial  eagle  of  Austria." 

But  there  is  another  view  to  be  taken  of  Fielding  and  of  his  works.  He  led  a  r.ither  dis- 
solute life  in  his  youth,  and  although  he  has  never  intentionally  countenanced  immorality,  it 
must  be  confessed  that  he  has  not  set  up  a  very  high  standard  of  conduct.  Tom  Jones  in 
spite  of  some  good  points,  was  rather  a  sorry  fellow  ;  and  if,  as  we  believe,  the  book  f..ir]y 
represents  the  manners  of  the  time,  we  must  be  thankful  for  the  great  improvement  \vh  ch 
has  since  taken  place.  Profanity,  indecency,  and  drunkenneis  appear  to  have  been  as  com- 
mon as  the  light,  and  air,  and  daily  food.  I'he  books  can  only  be  commended  to  the  mature 
and  the  stable-minded. 

The  selection  here  given  has  appeared  in  other  compilations,  and  is  repeated  now  for  the 
simple  reason  that  after  a  pretty  careful  search  no  other  suitable  extract  could  be  found  in 
any  of  his  works. 

Fielding  was  appointed  a  police  magistrate  at  the  age  of  forty-three,  and  discharged  the 
duties  of  his  office  witli  marked  ability.  His  experience  in  court  led  him  to  write  the  Life 
of  Jonathan  Wild,  an  amazing  piece  of  satire,  and  equal  probably  to  anything  he  has  left. 
The  Journey  from  this  World  to  the  Next  has  also  many  fine  points. 

In  1754,  being  in  feeble  health,  he  was  induced  to  try  a  sea  voyage.  He  sailed  to  Lisbon, 
and  there,  shortly  after,  he  died. 

PARTRIDGE   AT   THE   PLAYHOUSE. 
[From  Tom  Jones] 

In  the  first  row,  then,  of  the  first  gallery,  did  Mr.  Jones,  Mrs. 
Miller,  her  youngest  daughter,  and  Partridge  take  their  places.  Par- 
tridge immediately  declared  it  was  the  finest  place  he  had  ever  been 
in.  When  the  first  music  was  played,  he  said  "it  was  a  wonder 
how  so  many  fiddlers  could  play  at  one  time  without  putting  one 
another  out."  While  the  fellow  was  lighting  the  upper  candles,  he 
cried  out  to  Mrs.  Miller,  "  Look,  look,  madam  ;  the  very  picture  of 
the  man  in  the  end  of  the  Common-prayer  Book,  before  the  gunpow- 
der treason  service."    Nor  could  he  help  observing,  with  a  sigh,  when 


HENRY   FIELDING.  153 

all  the  candles  were  lighted,  "that  here  were  candles  enough  burnt  in 
one  night  to  keep  an  honest  poor  family  for  a  whole  twelve-month." 

"As  soon  as  the  play,  which  was  Hamlet,  Prince  of  Denmark, 
began,  Partridge  was  all  attention  ;  nor  did  he  break  silence  till  the 
entrance  of  the  ghost ;  upon  which  he  asked  Jones  "what  man  that 
was  in  the  strange  dress  ;  something,"  said  he,  "  like  what  I  have 
seen  in  a  picture.  Sure  it  is  not  armor  ;  is  it  ?  "  Jones  answered, 
"  That  is  the  ghost."  To  which  Partridge  replied,  with  a  smile, 
"  Persuade  me  to  that,  sir,  if  you  can.  Though  I  can't  say  I  ever 
actually  saw  a  ghost  in  my  life,  yet  I  am  certain  I  should  know  one 
if  I  saw  him  better  than  that  comes  to.  No,  no,  sir;  ghosts  don't 
appear  in  such  dresses  as  that,  neither."  In  this  mistake,  which 
caused  much  laughter  in  the  neighborhood  of  Partridge,  he  was  suf- 
fered to  continue  until  the  scene  between  the  ghost  and  Hamlet, 
when  Partridge  gave  that  credit  to  Mr.  Garrick  which  he  had  denied 
to  Jones,  and  fell  into  so  violent  a  trembhng  that  his  knees  knocked 
against  each  other.  Jones  asked  him  what  was  the  matter,  and 
whether  he  was  afraid  of  the  warrior  upon  the  stage.  "  O,  la  !  sir," 
said  he,  "  I  perceive  now  it  is  what  you  told  me.  I  am  not  afraid  of 
anything,  for  I  know  it  is  but  a  play  ;  and  if  it  was  really  a  ghost,  it 
could  do  one  no  harm  at  such  a  distance,  and  in  so  much  company  ; 
and  yet  if  I  was  frightened,  I  am  not  the  only  person."  "  Why, 
who,"  cries  Jones,  "  dost  thou  take  to  be  such  a  coward  here  besides 
thyself.'"'  "  Nay,  you  may  call  me  coward  if  you  will ;  but  if  that 
little  man  there  upon  the  stage  is  not  frightened,  I  never  saw  any 
man  frightened  in  my  life.  Ay,  ay ;  go  along  with  you  !  Ay,  to  be 
sure  !  Who's  fool,  then  ?  Will  you  ?  Lud  have  mercy  upon  such 
foolhardiness  !  Whatever  happens,  it  is  good  enough  for  you.  Fol- 
low you!  Pd  follow  the  devil  as  soon.  Nay,  perhaps  it  is  the 
devil  —  for  they  say  he  can  put  on  what  likeness  he  pleases.  O, 
here  he  is  again  !  No  further  !  No,  you  have  gone  far  enough 
already  ;  further  than  I'd  have  gone  for  all  the  king's  dominions." 
Jones  offered  to  speak,  but  Partridge  cried,  "  Hush,  hush,  dear  sir  ; 
don't  you  hear  him  ? "  And  during  the  whole  speech  of  the  ghost 
he  sat  with  his  eyes  fixed  partly  on  the  ghost  and  partly  on  Hamlet, 
and  with  his  mouth  open,  the  same  passions  which  succeeded  each 
other  in  Hamlet  succeeding  likewise  in  hmn. 

When  the  scene  was  over,  Jones  said,  "  Why,  Partridge,  you 
exceed  my  expectations.  You  enjoy  the  play  more  than  I  conceived 
possible."  "  Nay,  sir,"  answered  Partridge,  "if  you  are  not  afraid 
of  the  devil,  I  can't  help  it ;  but,  to  be  sure,  it  is  natural  to  be  sur- 


154  HAND-BOOK  OF   EN(;LISH   LITERATURE. 

prised  at  such  things,  though  I  know  there  is  nothing  in  them  :  not 
that  it  was  the  ghost  that  surprised  me,  neither  ;  for  I  should  have 
known  that  to  have  been  only  a  man  in  a  strange  dress  ;  but  when  I 
saw  the  little  man  so  frightened  himself,  it  was  that  which  took  hold 
of  me."  "  And  dost  thou  imagine  then,  Partridge,"  cries  Jones, 
"  that  he  was  really  frightened  ?  "  "  Nay,  sir,"  said  Partridge,  "  did 
not  you  yourself  observe  afterwards,  when  he  found  it  was  his  own 
father's  spirit,  and  how  he  was  murdered  in  the  garden,  how  his  fear 
forsook  him  by  degrees,  and  he  was  struck  dumb  with  sorrow,  as  it 
were,  just  as  I  should  have  been  had  it  been  my  own  case.  But 
hush  !  O,  la  !  what  noise  is  that  ?  There  he  is  again.  Well,  to  be 
certain,  though  I  know  there  is  nothing  at  all  in  it,  I  am  glad  I  am 
not  down  yonder  where  those  men  are."  Then  turning  his  eyes 
igain  upon  Hamlet,  "  Ay,  )'OU  may  draw  your  sword  ;  what  signifies 
I  sword  against  the  power  of  the  devil  ?  " 

During  the  second  act  Partridge  made  very  few  remarks.  He 
greatly  admired  the  fineness  of  the  dresses  ;  nor  could  he  help 
observing  upon  the  king's  countenance.  "  Well,"  said  he,  "  how  peo- 
ple may  be  deceived  by  faces  !  Nulla  fides  fronti^  is,  I  find,  a  true 
saying.  Who  would  think,  by  looking  in  the  king's  face,  that  he 
had  ever  committed  a  murder  ?  "  He  then  inquired  after  the  ghost ; 
but  Jones,  who  intended  he  should  be  surprised,  gave  him  no  other 
satisfaction  than  that  he  might  possibly  see  him  again  soon,  and  in  a 
flash  of  fire." 

Partridge  sat  in  fearful  expectation  of  this  ;  and  now,  when  the 
ghost  made  his  next  api^earance.  Partridge  cried  out,  "  There,  sir, 
now  ;  what  say  you  now  "i  is  he  frightened  now  or  no  ?  As  much 
frightened  as  you  think  me,  and,  to  be  sure,  nobody  can  help  some 
fears,  I  would  not  be  in  so  bad  a  condition  as  —  what's  his  name  ? 
—  Squire  Hamlet  is  there,  for  all  the  world.  Bless  me  !  what's 
become  of  the  spirit  "i  As  I  am  a  living  soul,  I  thought  I  saw  him 
sink  into  the  earth."  "  Indeed,  you  saw  right,"  answered  Jones. 
"  Well,  well,"  cries  Partridge,  "  I  know  it  is  only  a  play ;  and 
besides,  if  there  was  anything  in  all  this.  Madam  Miller  would  not 
laugh  so  ;  for,  as  to  you,  sir,  you  would  not  be  afraid,  I  believe,  if 
the  devil  was  here  in  person.  There,  there  ;  ay,  no  wonder  you  are 
in  such  a  passion  ;  shake  the  vile,  wicked  wretch  to  pieces.  If  she 
was  my  own  mother  I  should  serve  her  so.  To  be  sure,  all  duty  to 
a  mother  is  forfeited  by  such  wicked  doings.  Ay,  go  about  your 
business  ;  I  hate  the  sight  of  you." 

Our  critic  was  now  pretty  silent  till  the  play  which  Hamlet  intro- 

*  Put  no  trust  in  a  countenance. 


HENRY   FIELDING.  1 55 

duces  before  the  king.  This  he  did  not  at  first  understand,  till  Jones 
explained  it  to  him  ;  but  he  no  sooner  entered  into  the  spirit  of  it 
than  he  began  to  bless  himself  that  he  had  never  committed  murder. 
Then,  turning  to  Mrs.  Miller,  he  asked  her  "  if  she  did  not  imagine 
the  king  looked  as  if  he  was  touched ;  though  he  is,"  said  he,  "  a 
good  actor,  and  doth  all  he  can  to  hide  it.  Well,  I  would  not  have 
so  much  to  answer  for  as  that  wicked  man  there  hath,  to  sit  upon 
a  much  higher  chair  than  he  sits  upon.  No  wonder  he  ran  away  ; 
for  your  sake  I'll  never  trust  an  innocent  face  again." 

The  grave-digging  scene  next  engaged  the  attention  of  Partridge, 
who  expressed  much  surprise  at  the  number  of  skulls  thrown  upon  the 
stage.  To  which  Jones  answered  "  that  it  was  one  of  the  most  famous 
burial-places  about  town."  "  No  wonder,  then,'  cries  Partridge, 
"  that  the  place  is  haunted.  But  I  never  saw  in  my  life  a  worse 
grave-digger.  I  had  a  sexton,  when  I  was  clerk,  that  should  have  dug 
three  graves  while  he  is  digging  one.  The  fellow  handles  a  spade 
as  if  it  was  the  first  time  he  had  ever  had  one  in  his  hand.  Ay,  ay, 
you  may  sing.  You  had  rather  sing  than  work,  I  believe."  Upon 
Hamlet's  taking  up  the  skull,  he  cried  out,  "  Well,  it  is  strange  to 
see  how  fearless  some  men  are.  I  never  could  bring  myself  to  touch 
anything  belonging  to  a  dead  man  on  any  account.  He  seemed 
frightened  enough,  too,  at  the  ghost,  I  thought.  Nemo  omnibus 
hoi'is  sapitP  ^ 

Little  nxore  worth  remembering  occurred  during  the  play,  at  the 
end  of  which  Jones  asked  him  which  of  the  players  he  had  liked 
best.  To  this  he  answered,  with  some  appearance  of  indignation 
at  the  question,  "The  king,  without  doubt."  "Indeed,  Mr.  Par- 
tridge," says  Mrs.  Miller,  "  you  are  not  of  the  same  opinion  with  the 
town,  for  they  are  all  agreed  that  Hamlet  is  acted  by  the  best  player 
who  ever  was  on  the  stage."  "  He  the  best  player  !  "  cries  Par- 
tridge, with  a  contemptuous  sneer.  "  Why,  I  could  act  as  well  my- 
self. I  am  sure,  if  I  had  seen  a  ghost,  I  should  have  looked  in  the 
very  same  manner,  and  done  just  as  he  did.  And  then,  to  be  sure, 
in  that  scene,  as  you  called  it,  between  him  and  his  mother,  where 
you  told  me  he  acted  so  fine,  why,  Lord  help  me,  any  man,  that  is, 
any  good  man,  that  had  such  a  mother,  would  have  done  exactly  the 
same.  I  know  you  are  only  joking  with  me;  but,  indeed,  madam, 
though  I  was  never  at  a  play  in  London,  yet  I  have  seen  acting 
before  in  the  country  ;  and  the  king  for  my  money  :  he  speaks  all 
his  words  distinctly,  half  as  loud  again  as  the  other.  Anybody  may 
see  he  is  an  actor." 

^  No  one  is  wise  at  all  timei.. 


10  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 


SAMUEL    JOHNSON. 

Samuel  Johnson  was  born  in  Lichfield,  in  1709.  He  was  educated  at  Oxford,  and  after- 
wards went  to  London  to  live  by  authorship.  His  early  struggles  with  poverty  probably 
sharpened  a  natural  harshness  of  temper,  so  that,  in  after  life,  even  when  he  was  above  want, 
and  was  the  acknowledged  leader  of  men  of  letters,  he  often  showed  the  manners  of  a  boor, 
and  used  the  speech  of  a  bully.  There  is  no  author,  of  any  age  or  nation,  whom  we  know 
so  intimately  as  Johnson.  His  biographer,  Boswell,  whose  name  has  become  the  synonym 
of  servility,  of  impertinent  curiosity,  and  the  indefatigable  jotting  down  of  all  things  that 
men  of  sense  and  spirit  would  suppress,  has  produced  a  bodk  without  a  parallel  in  absorbing 
interest,  and  containing  the  most  faithful  photographic  portrait  ever  put  on  paper.  Johnson's 
poems,  as  might  be  expected,  have  weight  of  thought,  and  a  sonorous  and  stately  diction,  but 
are  deficient  in  imagination  and  grace.  Indeed,  the  faculty  of  imagination  seems  to  have  been 
wanting  in  this  sturdy  mind,  and  the  admirer  of  the  poetry  of  an  earlier  day  will  be  almost 
sure  to  dislike  everything  that  the  burly  critic  has  approved.  Johnson  was,  in  fact,  an  embodi- 
ment of  the  understanding,  a  huge  epitome  of  the  common  sense  of  mankind,  and  a  poem 
in  his  hands  fared  as  would  a  butterfly  between  a  clown's  horny  thumb  and  finger.  His 
principal  works  are  his  English  Dictionary,  Rasselas,  Tour  to  the  Hebrides,  London,  The 
Vanity  of  Human  Wishes,  the  Lives  of  the  Poets,  and  essays  in  The  Rambler  and  The 
Idler. 

Apart  from  his  disagreeable  manners,  Johnson  is  to  be  honored  for  his  manly  indepen- 
dence, his  unflinching  honestj^  and  his  generous  nature.  His  heart  was  as  sound  as  his 
head  ;  and  if  he  was  a  despot  in  his  circle,  he  delighted  in  acts  of  personal  kindness  just  as 
much  as  he  did  in  overwhelming  an  opponent  with  a  Mississippi  current  of  argument.  In 
one  of  Macaulay's  essays  is  a  most  admirable  sketch  of  this  remarkable  man.  Later  in  this 
volume,  in  one  of  the  letters  of  Walpole,  there  is  an  amusing  reference  to  him  by  a  politi- 
cal opponent. 
•     The  style  of  Johnson  cannot  be  commended  to  the  student  as  a  model  for  imitation. 

[Letter  to  Lord  Chesterfield.] 

February  7,  1755. 

My  Lord  :  I  have  been  lately  informed  by  the  proprietor  of  The 
World,  that  two  papers,  in  which  my  Dictionary  is  recommended  to 
the  public,  were  written  by  your  lordship.  To  be  so  distinguished 
is  an  honor,  which,  being  very  little  accustomed  to  favors  from  the 
great,  I  know  not  well  how  to  receive,  or  in  what  terms  to  acknowl- 
edge. 

When,  upon  some  slight  encouragement,  I  first  visited  your  lord- 
ship, I  was  overpowered,  like  the  rest  of  mankind,  by  the  enchant- 
ment of  your  address,  and  could  not  forbear  to  wish  that  I  might 
boast  myself  le  vainqueiir  du  vainqtieur  de  la  terre,  that  I  might 
obtain  that  regard  for  which  I  saw  the  world  contending  ;  but  I 
found  my  attendance  so  little  encouraged,  that  neither  pride  nor 
modesty  would  suffer  me  to  continue  it.  When  I  had  once  ad- 
dressed your  lordship  in  public,  I  had  exhausted  all  the  art  of  pleas- 
ing which  a  retired  and  uncourtly  scholar  can  possess.  I  had  done 
all  that  I  could  ;  and  no  man  is  well  pleased  to  have  his  all  neglected, 
be  it  ever  so  little. 


SAMUEL   JOHNSON.  I57 

Seven  years,  my  lord,  have  now  passed  since  I  waited  in  your 
outward  rooms,  or  was  repulsed  from  your  door,  during  which  time 
I  have  been  pushing  on  my  work  through  difficulties  of  which  it  is 
useless  to  complain,  and  have  brought  it  at  last  to  the  verge  of  pub- 
lication; without  one  act  of  assistance,  one  word  of  encouragement, 
or  one  smile  of  favor.  Such  treatment  I  did  not  expect,  for  I  never 
had  a  patron  before. 

The  shepherd  in  Virgil  grew,  at  last,  acquainted  with  Love,  and 
found  him  a  native  of  the  rocks. 

Is  not  a  patron,  my  lord,  one  who  looks  with  unconcern  on  a  man 
struggling  for  life  in  the  water,  and,  when  he  has  reached  ground, 
encumbers  him  with  help  ?  The  notice  which  you  have  been  pleased 
to  take  of  my  labors,  had  it  been  early,  had  been  kind ;  but  it  has 
been  delayed  till  I  am  indifferent,  and  cannot  enjoy  it  ;  till  I  am 
solitary,  and  cannot  impart  it  ;  till  I  am  known,  and  do  not  want  it. 
I  hope  it  is  no  very  cynical  asperity  not  to  confess  obligations  where 
no  benefit  has  been  received,  or,  to  be  unwilling  that  the  public 
should  consider  me  as  owing  that  to  a  patron  which  Providence  has 
enabled  me  to  do  for  myself. 

Having  carried  on  my  work  thus  far  with  so  little  obligation  to 
any  favorer  of  learning,  I  shall  not  be  disappointed  though  I  should 
conclude  it,  if  less  be  possible,  with  less  ;  for  I  have  been  long 
wakened  from  that  dream  of  hope  in  which  I  once  boasted  myself 
with  so  much  exultation,  my  lord, 

Your  lordship's  most  humble,  most  obedient  servant, 

Sam.  Johnson. 

[From  Rasselas.  —  A  Dissertation  on  Poetry.] 

"  Wherever  I  went,  I  found  that  poetry  was  considered  as  the 
highest  learning,  and  regarded  with  a  veneration  somewhat  ap- 
proaching to  that  which  man  would  pay  to  the  angelic  nature.  And 
yet  it  fills  me  with  wonder,  that,  in  almost  all  countries,  the  most 
ancient  poets  are  considered  as  the  best ;  whether  it  be  that  every 
other  kind  of  knowledge  is  an  acquisition  gradually  attained,  and 
poetry  is  a  gift  conferred  at  once,  or  that  the  first  poetry  of  every 
nation  surprised  them  as  a  novelty,  and  retained  the  credit  by  con- 
sent which  it  received  by  accident  at  first,  or  whether,  as  the  prov- 
ince of  poetry  is  to  describe  nature  and  passion,  which  are  always 
the  same,  the  first  writers  took  possession  of  the  most  striking  ob- 
jects for  description,  and  the  most  probable  occurrences  for  fiction, 
and  left  nothing  to  those  that  followed  them  but  transcription  of  the 


158  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

same  events,  and  new  combinations  of  the  same  images.  Whatever 
be  the  reason,  it  is  commonly  observed  that  the  early  writers  are  in 
possession  of  nature,  and  their  followers  of  art ;  that  the  first  excel 
in  strength  and  invention,  and  the  latter  in  elegance  and  refinement. 

"  I  was  desirous  to  add  my  name  to  this  illustrious  fraternity.  I 
read  all  the  poets  of  Persia  and  Arabia,  and  was  able  to  repeat  by 
memory  the  volumes  that  are  suspended  in  the  mosque  of  Mecca. 
But  I  soon  found  that  no  man  was  ever  great  by  imitation.  My  de- 
sire of  excellence  impelled  me  to  transfer  my  attention  to  nature 
and  to  life.  Nature  was  to  be  my  subject,  and  men  to  be  my  audi- 
tors. I  could  never  describe  what  I  had  not  seen  ;  I  could  not  hope 
to  move  those  with  delight  or  terror  whose  interests  and  opinions  I 
did  not  understand. 

"  Being  now  resolved  to  be  a  poet,  I  saw  everything  with  a  new 
purpose  ;  my  sphere  of  attention  was  suddenly  magnified  ;  no  kind 
of  knowledge  was  to  be  overlooked.  I  ranged  mountains  and  des- 
erts for  images  and  resemblances,  and  pictured  upon  my  mind  every 
tree  of  the  forest  and  flower  of  the  valley.  I  observed  with  equal 
care  the  crags  of  the  rock  and  the  pinnacles  of  the  palace.  Some- 
times I  wandered  along  the  mazes  of  the  rivulet,  and  sometimes 
watched  the  changes  of  the  summer  clouds.  To  a  poet  nothing  can 
be  useless.  Whatever  is  beautiful  and  whatever  is  dreadful  must  be 
famihar  to  his  imagination  ;  he  must  be  conversant  with  all  that  is 
awfully  vast  or  elegantly  little.  The  plants  of  the  garden,  the  ani- 
mals of  the  wood,  the  minerals  of  the  earth,  and  meteors  of  the  sky, 
must  all  concur  to  store  his  mind  with  inexhaustible  variety  ;  for 
every  idea  is  useful  for  the  enforcement  or  decoration  of  moral  or 
religious  truth,  and  he  who  knows  most  will  have  most  power  of 
diversifying  his  scenes,  and  of  gratifying  his  reader  with  remote  al- 
lusions and  unexpected  instruction. 

"  All  the  appearances  of  nature  I  was,  therefore,  careful  to  study ; 
and  every  country  which  I  have  surveyed  has  contributed  something 
to  my  poetical  powers." 

"In  so  wide  a  survey,"  said  the  prince,  "you  must  surely  have 
left  much  unobserved.  I  have  lived,  till  now,  within  the  circuit  of 
these  mountains,  and  yet  cannot  walk  abroad  without  the  sight  of 
something  which  I  had  never  beheld  before,  or  never  heeded." 

"  The  business  of  a  poet,"  said  Imlac,  "  is  to  examine,  not  the 
individual,  but  the  species  ;  to  remark  general  properties  and  large 
appearances.  He  does  not  number  the  streaks  of  the  tulip,  or  de- 
scribe the  different  shades  in  the  verdure  of  the  forest.     He  is  to 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON.  I  59 

exhibit  in  his  portraits  of  nature  such  prominent  and  striking  fea- 
tures as  recall  the  original  to  every  mind,  and  must  neglect  the  mi- 
nuter discriminations,  which  one  may  have  remarked,  and  another 
have  neglected,  for  those  characteristics  which  are  alike  obvious  to 
vigilance  and  carelessness. 

"  But  the  knowledge  of  nature  is  only  half  the  task  of  a  poet ;  he 
must  be  acquainted,  likewise,  with  all  the  modes  of  life.  His  char- 
acter requires  that  he  estimate  the  happiness  and  misery  of  every 
condition,  observe  the  power  of  all  the  passions  in  all  their  combi- 
nations, and  trace  the  changes  of  the  human  mind  as  they  are  mod- 
ified by  various  institutions  and  accidental  influences  of  cHmate  or 
custom,  from  the  sprightliness  of  infancy  to  the  despondence  of 
decrepitude.  He  must  divest  himself  of  the  prejudices  of  his  age 
or  country ;  he  must  consider  right  and  wrong  in  their  abstracted 
and  invariable  state  ;  he  must  disregard  present  laws  and  opinions, 
and  rise  to  general  and  transcendental  truths,  which  will  always  be 
the  same.  He  must,  therefore,  content  himself  with  the  slow  prog- 
ress of  his  name,  contemn  the  applause  of  his  own  time,  and  com- 
mit his  claims  to  the  justice  of  posterity.  He  must  write  as  the 
interpreter  of  nature  and  the  legislator  of  mankind,  and  consider 
himself  as  presiding  over  the  thoughts  and  manners  of  future  gen- 
erations —  as  a  being  superior  to  time  and  place. 

"  His  labor  is  not  yet  at  an  end.  He  must  know  many  languages 
and  many  sciences,  and,  that  his  style  may  be  worthy  of  his  thoughts, 
must,  by  incessant  practice,  familiarize  to  himself  every  delicacy  of 
speech  and  grace  of  harmony." 

Imlac  now  felt  the  enthusiastic  fit,  and  was  proceeding  to  aggran- 
dize his  own  profession,  when  the  prince  cried  out,  "  Enough  ;  thou 
hast  convinced  me  that  no  human  being  can  ever  be  a  poet.  Pro- 
ceed with  thy  narration." 


[From  Rasselas.  —  The  Insane  Astronomer.  ] 

"  At  last  the  time  came  when  the  secret  burst  his  reserve.  We 
were  sitting  together  last  night  in  the  turret  of  his  house,  watching 
the  emersion  of  a  satellite  of  Jupiter.  A  sudden  tempest  clouded 
the  sky,  and  disappointed  our  observation.  We  sat  a  while  silent  in 
the  dark,  and  then  he  addressed  himself  to  me  in  these  words  :  — 

" '  Imlac,  I  have  long  considered  thy  friendship  as  the  greatest 
blessing  of  my  life.  Integrity  without  knowledge  is  weak  and  use- 
less, and  knowledge  without  integrity  is  dangerous  and  dreadful.     I 


ItKJ  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

have  found  in  thee  all  the  qualities  requisite  for  trust,  benevolence, 
experience,  and  fortitude.  I  have  long  discharged  an  office  which  I 
must  soon  quit  at  the  call  of  nature,  and  shall  rejoice,  in  the  hour 
of  imbecility  and  pain,  to  devolve  it  upon  thee.' 

"  I  thought  myself  honored  by  this  testimony,  and  protested  that 
whatever  would  conduce  to  his  happiness  would  add  likewise  to 
mine. 

" '  Hear,  Imlac,  what  thou  wilt  not  without  difficulty  credit.  I 
have  possessed  for  five  years  the  regulation  of  the  weather  and  the 
distribution  of  the  seasons.  The  sun  has  listened  to  mv  dictates, 
and  passed  from  tropic  to  tropic  by  my  direction  ;  the  clouds,  at  my 
call,  have  poured  their  waters,  and  the  Nile  has  overflowed  at  my 
command ;  I  have  restrained  the  rage  of  the  Dog-star,  and  mitigated 
the  fervors  of  the  Crab.  The  winds  alone,  of  all  the  elemental  pow- 
ers, have  hitherto  refused  my  authority,  and  multitudes  have  perished 
by  equinoctial  tempest,  which  I  found  myself  unable  to  prohibit  or 
restrain.  I  have  administered  this  great  office  with  exact  justice, 
and  made  to  the  different  nations  of  the  earth  an  impartial  dividend 
of  rain  and  sunshine.  What  must  have  been  the  misery  of  half  the 
globe,  if  I  had  limited  the  clouds  to  particular  regions,  or  confined 
the  sun  to  either  side  of  the  equator  ! ' 

"  I  suppose  he  discovered  in  me,  through  the  obscurity  of  the  room, 
some  tokens  of  amazement  and  doubt ;  for,  after  a  short  pause,  he 
proceeded  thus  :  — 

"  '  Not  to  be  easily  credited  will  neither  surprise  nor  offend  me  ; 
for  I  am,  probably,  the  first  of  human  beings  to  whom  this  trust  has 
been  imparted.  Nor  do  I  know  whether  to  deem  the  distinction  a 
reward  or  punishment.  Since  I  have  possessed  it  I  have  been  far 
less  happy  than  before,  and  nothing  but  the  consciousness  of  good 
intention  could  have  enabled  me  to  support  the  weariness  of  unre- 
mitted vigilance.' 

" '  How  long,  sir,'  said  I,  'has  this  great  office  been  in  your  hands  .'* ' 

" '  About  ten  years  ago,'  said  he,  '  my  daily  observations  of  the 
changes  of  the  sky  led  me  to  consider  whether,  if  I  had  the  power 
of  the  seasons,  I  could  confer  greater  plenty  upon  the  inhabitants  of 
the  earth.  This  contemplation  fastened  upon  my  mind,  and  I  sat 
days  and  nights  in  imaginary  dominion,  pouring  upon  this  country 
and  that  the  showers  of  fertility,  and  seconding  every  fall  of  rain 
with  a  due  proportion  of  sunshine.  I  had  yet  only  the  will  to  do 
good,  and  did  not  imagine  that  I  should  ever  have  the  power. 
One  day,  as  I  was  looking  on  the  fields  withering  with  heat,  I  felt 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON.  lOF 

in  my  mind  a  sudden  wish  that  I  could  send  rain  on  the  southern 
mountains,  and  raise  the  Nile  to  an  inundation.  In  the  hurry  of  my 
imagination,  I  commanded  rain  to  fall  ;  and,  by  comparing  the  time 
of  my  command  with  that  of  the  inundation,  I  found  that  the  clouds 
had  hstened  to  my  lips.' 

"  '  Might  not  some  other  cause,'  said  I,  'produce  this  concurrence } 
The  Nile  does  not  always  rise  on  the  same  day.' 

"  '  Do  not  believe,'  said  he,  with  impatience,  '  that  such  objections 
could  escape  me.  I  reasoned  long  against  my  own  conviction,  and 
labored  against  truth  with  the  utmost  obstinacy.  I  sometimes  sus- 
pected myself  of  madness,  and  should  not  have  dared  to  impart  this 
secret  but  to  a  man  like  you,  capable  of  distinguishing  the  wonder- 
ful from  the  impossible,  and  the  incredible  from  the  false.' 

"  '  Why,  sir,'  said  I,  '  do  you  call  that  incredible  which  you  know, 
or  think  you  know,  to  be  true  ? ' 

"  '  Because,'  said  he,  '  I  cannot  prove  it  by  any  external  evidence  ; 
and  I  know  too  well  the  laws  of  demonstration  to  think  that  my 
conviction  ought  to  influence  another,  who  cannot,  like  me,  be  con- 
scious of  its  force.  I,  therefore,  shall  not  attempt  to  gain  credit  by 
disputation.  It  is  sufficient  that  I  feel  this  power  that  I  have  long 
possessed,  and  every  day  exerted  it.  But  the  life  of  man  is  short, 
the  infirmities  of  age  increase  upon  me,  and  the  time  will  soon  come 
when  the  regulator  of  the  year  must  mingle  with  the  dust.  The 
care  of  appointing  a  successor  has  long  disturbed  me.  The  night 
and  the  day  have  been  spent  in  comparisons  of  all  the  characters 
which  have  come  to  my  knowledge,  and  I  have  yet  found  none  so 
worthy  as  thyself.  Hear,  therefore,  what  I  shall  impart  with  atten- 
tion, such  as  the  welfare  of  a  world  requires.  If  the  task  of  a  king 
be  considered  as  difficult,  who  has  the  care  only  of  a  few  millions, 
to  whom  he  cannot  do  much  good  or  harm,  what  must  be  the  anx- 
iety of  him  on  whom  depend  the  action  of  the  elements,  and  the 
great  gifts  of  light  and  heat  ?  Hear  me,  therefore,  with  attention. 
I  have  diligently  considered  the  position  of  the  earth  and  sun,  and 
formed  innumerable  schemes  in  which  I  changed  their  situation. 
I  have  sometimes  turned  aside  the  axis  of  the  earthy  and  sometimes 
varied  the  ecliptic  of  the  sun  ;  but  I  have  found  it  impossible  to 
make  a  disposition  by  which  the  world  may  be  advantaged.  What 
one  region  gains  another  loses  by  an  imaginable  alteration,  even 
without  considering  the  distant  parts  of  the  solar  system  with  which 
we  are  unacquainted.  Do  not,  therefore,  in  thy  administration  of  the 
year,  indulge  thy  pride  by  innovation.  Do  not  please  thyself  with 
II 


l62  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

thinking  that  thou  canst  make  thyself  renowned  to  all  future  ages, 
by  disordering  the  seasons.  The  memory  of  mischief  is  no  desira- 
ble fame.  Much  less  will  it  become  thee  to  let  kindness  or  interest 
prevail.  Never  rob  other  countries  of  rain,  to  pour  it  on  thine  own. 
For  us  the  Nile  is  sufficient.' 

"  I  promised,  that  when  I  possessed  the  power,  I  would  use  it 
with  inflexible  integrity ;  and  he  dismissed  me,  pressing  my  hand. 
'  My  heart,'  said  he,  '  will  be  now  at  rest,  and  my  benevolence  will 
no  more  destroy  my  quiet ;  I  have  found  a  man  of  wisdom  and 
virtue,  to  whom  I  can  cheerfully  bequeath  the  inheritance  of  the 
sun.'  " 

The  prince  heard  this  narration  with  very  serious  regard  ;  but  the 
princess  smiled,  and  Pekuah  convulsed  herself  with  laughter.  "  La- 
dies," said  Imlac,  "to  mock  the  heaviest  of  human  afflictions  is 
neither  charitable  nor  wise.  Few  can  attain  this  man's  knowledge, 
and  few  practise  his  virtues  ;  but  all  may  suffer  his  calamity.  Of 
the  uncertainties  of  our  present  state,  the  most  dreadful  and  alarm- 
ing is  the  uncertain  continuance  of  reason." 


DAVID    HUME. 

David  Hume  was  bom  in  Edinburgh  in  tjii,  and  was  educated  in  his  native  city.  His  early 
treatises  upon  moral  and  metaphysical  subjects,  though  profound  and  keenly  analytic,  were 
not  in  accordance  with  the  usual  Christian  teachings,  and  it  may  be  supposed  that  he  got 
neither  money  nor  reputation  from  them.  His  efforts  were  afterwards  given  to  historical 
composition  ;  and  to  complete  his  work  he  lived  with  an  heroic  frugality  that  contrasts  nobly 
with  the  hat-in -hand  complaisance  of  so  many  authors  of  his  century.  He  has  written  the 
history  of  England  from  the  Tory's  point  of  view.  Every  scholar  knows  how  eloquently 
Macaulay  has  presented  the  opposite,  or  Whig  theory,  of  the  British  constitution.  But  the 
lover  of  liberty,  while  his  sympathies  have  been  with  the  ardent  assailant  of  royal  preroga- 
tive, has  been  sorry  to  find  that  his  judgment  of  the  facts  of  history  mainly  accords  with  that 
of  the  conservative  narrator.  Hume  doubtless  intended  to  write  accurately  as  well  as  dispas- 
sionately ;  but  the  critical  examination  of  state  papers,  and  of  the  memoirs  of  public  men  in 
eventful  times,  had  not  then  begun,  and  his  history  is  not  often  an  authority  as  to  any  dis- 
puted point ;  but,  as  a  who!e,  it  is  so  learned,  so  even  in  tone,  and  so  clear  in  narration, 
that  it  continues  to  hold  a  high  rank,  and  is  indispensable  to  every  student. 

The  autobiography  of  Hume  is  singularly  interesting,  as  being  the  portrait  of  a  modest, 
firm,  independent,  and  just  man.  He  died,  with  the  same  calm  serenity  in  which  he  had 
lived,  at  the  age  of  sixty-six. 

THE   BATTLE   OF   HASTINGS. 

The  Norman  fleet  and  army  had  been  assembled,  early  in  the 
summer,  at  the  mouth  of  the  small  river  Dive,  and  all  the  troops  had 
been  instantly  embarked  ;  but  the  winds  proved  long  contrary,  and 


DAVID   HUME.  163 

detained  chem  in  that  harbor.  The  authority,  however,  of  the  duke, 
the  good  discipHne  maintained  among  the  seamen  and  soldiers,  and 
the  great  care  in  supplying  them  with  provisions,  had  prevented  any 
disorder  ;  when  at  last  the  wind  became  favorable,  and  enabled  them 
to  sail  along  the  coast,  till  they  reached  St.  Valori.  There  were, 
however,  several  vessels  lost  in  this  short  passage  ;  and,  as  the 
wind  again  proved  contrary,  the  army  began  to  imagine  that  Heaven 
had  declared  against  them,  and  that,  notwithstanding  the  pope's 
benediction,  they  were  destined  to  certain  destruction.  These  bold 
warriors,  who  despised  real  dangers,  were  very  subject  to  the  dread 
of  imaginary  ones  ;  and  many  of  them  began  to  mutiny,  some  of 
them  even  to  desert  their  colors,  when  the  duke,  in  order  to  support 
their  drooping  hopes,  ordered  a  procession  to  be  made  with  the 
relics  of  St.  Valori,  and  prayers  to  be  said  for  more  favorable 
weather.  The  wind  instantly  changed  ;  and,  as  this  incident  hap- 
pened on  the  eve  of  the  feast  of  St.  Michael,  the  tutelar  saint  of 
Normandy,  the  soldiers,  fancying  they  saw  the  hand  of  Heaven  in 
all  these  concurring  circumstances,  set  out  with  the  greatest  alac- 
rity :  they  met  with  no  opposition  on  their  passage.  A  great  fleet 
which  Harold  had  assembled,  and  which  had  cruised  all  summer  off 
the  Isle  of  Wight,  had  been  dismissed  on  his  receiving  false  intel- 
ligence that  William,  discouraged  by  contrary  winds  and  other  acci- 
dents, had  laid  aside  his  preparations.  The  Norman  armament, 
proceeding  in  great  order,  arrived,  without  any  material  loss,  at 
Pevensey,  in  Sussex;  and  the  army  quietly  disembarked.  The 
duke  himself,  as  he  leaped  on  shore,  happened  to  stumble  and  fall, 
but  had  the  presence  of  mind,  it  is  said,  to  turn  the  omen  to  his  ad- 
vantage, by  calling  aloud  that  he  had  taken  possession  of  the  coun- 
try. And  a  soldier,  running  to  a  neighboring  cottage,  plucked  some 
thatch,  which,  as  if  giving  him  seizin  of  the  kingdom,  he  presented 
to  his  general.  The  joy  and  alacrity  of  William  and  his  whole 
army  was  so  great,  that  they  were  nowise  discouraged,  even  when 
they  heard  of  Harold's  great  victory  over  the  Norwegians.  They 
seemed  rather  to  wait  with  impatience  the  arrival  of  the  enemy.  % 
The  victory  of  Harold,  though  great  and  honorable,  had  proved 
in  the  main  prejudicial  tg  his  interests,  and  may  be  regarded  as  the 
immediate  cause  of  his  ruin.  He  lost  many  of  his  bravest  officers 
and  soldiers  in  the  action,  and  he  disgusted  the  rest  by  refusing  to 
distribute  the  Norwegian  spoils  among  them  —  a  conduct  which  was 
little  agreeable  to  his  usual  generosity  of  temper,  but  which  his  de- 
sire of  sparing  the  people,  in  the  war  that  impended  over  him  from 


l64  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

the  Duke  of  Normandy,  had  probably  occasioned.  He  hastened  by 
quick  marches  to  reach  this  new  invader  ;  but  though  he  was  re- 
enforced  at  London  and  other  places  with  fresh  troops,  he  found 
himself  also  weakened  by  the  desertion  of  his  old  soldiers,  who 
from  fatigue  and  discontent  secretly  withdrew  from  their  colors. 
His  brother  Gurth,  a  man  of  bravery  and  conduct,  began  to  enter- 
tain apprehensions  of  the  event,  and  remonstrated  with  the  king, 
that  it  would  be  better  policy  to  prolong  the  war  ;  at  least,  to  spare 
his  own  person  in  the  action.  He  urged  to  him  that  the  desperate 
situation  of  the  Duke  of  Normandy  made  it  requisite  for  that  prince 
to  bring  matters  to  a  speedy  decision,  and  put  his  whole  fortune  on 
the  issue  of  a  battle  ;  but  that  the  King  of  England,  in  his  own 
country,  beloved  by  his  subjects,  provided  with  every  supply,  had 
more  certain  and  less  dangerous  means  of  insuring  to  himself  the 
victory ;  that  the  Norman  troops,  elated,  on  the  one  hand,  with  the 
highest  hopes,  and  seeing,  on  the  other,  no  resource  in  case  of  a  dis- 
comfiture, would  fight  to  the  last  extremity ;  and,  being  the  flower 
of  all  the  warriors  of  the  continent,  must  be  regarded  as  formidable 
to  the  English  ;  that  if  their  first  fire,  which  is  always  the  most  dan- 
geroils,  were  allowed  to  languish  for  want  of  action,  if  they  were 
harassed  with  small  skirmishes,  straitened  in  provisions,  and  fatigued 
with  the  bad  weather  and  deep  roads  during  the  winter  season,  which 
was  approaching,  they  must  fall  an  easy  and  a  bloodless  prey  to  their 
enemy  ;  that  if  a  general  action  were  delayed,  the  English,  sensible 
of  the  imminent  danger  to  which  their  properties,  as  well  as  liber- 
ties, were  exposed  from  those  rapacious  invaders,  would  hasten  from 
all  quarters  to  his  assistance,  and  would  render  his  army  invincible  ; 
that,  at  least,  if  he  thought  it  necessary  to  hazard  a  battle,  he  ought 
not  to  expose  his  own  person,  but  reserve,  in  case  of  disastrous 
accidents,  some  resource  to  the  liberty  and  independence  of  the 
kingdom ;  and  that  having  once  been  so  unfortunate  as  to  be  con- 
strained to  swear,  and  that  upon  the  holy  relics,  to  support  the  pre- 
tensions of  the  Duke  of  Normandy,  it  were  better  that  the  command 
of  the  army  should  be  intrusted  to  another,  who,  not  being  bound 
by  those  sacred  ties,  might  give  the  soldiers  more  assured  hopes  of 
a  prosperous  issue  to  the  combat. 

Harold  was  deaf  to  all  these  remonstrances.  Elated  with  his 
past  prosperity,  as  well  as  stimulated  by  his  native  courage,  he  re- 
solved to  give  battle  in  person  ;  and  for  that  purpose  he  drew  near 
to  the  Normans,  who  had  removed  their  camp  and  fleet  to  Hastings, 
where  they  fixed  their  quarters.     He  was  so  confident  of  success, 


DAVID    HUME.  165 

that  he  sent  a  message  to  the  duke,  promising  him  a  sum  of  money 
if  he  would  depart  the  kingdom  without  effusion  of  blood ;  but  his 
offer  was  rejected  with  disdain  ;  and  William,  not  to  be  behind  with 
his  enemy  in  vaunting,  sent  him  a  message  by  some  monks,  requir- 
ing him  either  to  resign  the  kingdom,  or  to  hold  it  of  him  in  fealty, 
or  to  submit  their  cause  to  the  arbitration  of  the  pope,  or  to  fight 
him  in  -single  combat.  Harold  replied  that  the  God  of  battles  would 
soon  be  the  arbiter  of  all  their  differences. 

Ihe  EngHsh  and  Normans  now  prepared  themselves  for  this  im- 
portant decision  ;  but  the  aspect  of  things,  on  the  night  before  the 
battle,  was  very  different  in  the  two  camps.  The  English  spent  the 
time  in  riot,  and  jollity,  and  disorder  ;  the  Normans,  in  silence,  and 
in  prayer,  and  in  the  other  functions  of  their  religion.  On  the  morn- 
ing, the  duke  called  together  the  most  considerable  of  his  com- 
manders, and  made  them  a  speech  suitable  to  the  occasion.  He 
represented  to  them,  that  the  event  which  they  and  he  had  long 
wished  for  was  approaching ;  the  whole  fortune  of  the  war  now 
depended  on  their  swords,  and  would  be  decided  in  a  single  action  ; 
that  never  army  had  greater  motives  for  exerting  a  vigorous  courage, 
whether  they  considered  the  prize  which  would  attend  their  victory, 
or  the  inevitable  destruction  which  must  ensue  upon  their  discom- 
fiture ;  that  if  their  martial  and  veteran  bands  could  once  break 
those  raw  soldiers,  who  had  rashly  dared  to  approach  them,  they 
conquered  a  kingdom  at  one  blow,  and  were  justly  entitled  to  all  its 
possessions  as  the  reward  of  their  prosperous  valor ;  that,  on  the 
contrary,  if  they  remitted  in  the  least  their  wonted  prowess,  an  en- 
raged enemy  hung  upon  their  rear,  the  sea  met  them  in  their  retreat, 
and  an  ignominious  death  was  the  certain  punishment  of  their  im- 
prudent cowardice ;  that  by  collecting  so  numerous  and  brave  a 
host,  he  had  insured  every  human  means  of  conquest ;  and  the 
commander  of  the  enemy,  by  his  criminal  conduct,  had  given  him 
just  cause  to  hope  for  the  favor  of  the  Almighty,  in  whose  hands 
alone  lay  the  event  of  wars  and  battles  ;  and  that  a  perjured  usurper, 
anathematized  by  the  sovereign  pontiff,  and  conscious  of  his  own 
breach  of  faith,  would  be  struck  with  terror  on  their  appearance, 
and  would  prognosticate  to  himself  that  fate  which  his  multiplied 
crimes  had  so  justly  merited.  The  duke  next  divided  his  army  into 
three  lines  :  the  first,  led  by  Montgomery,  consisted  of  archers  and 
light-armed  infantry ;  the  second,  commanded  by  Martel,  was  com- 
posed of  his  bravest  battalions,  heavy  armed,  and  ranged  in  close 
order ;  his  cavalry,  at  whose  head  be  rlace*^!  himself  formed  the 


166  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

third  line,  and  were  so  disposed,  that  they  stretched  beyond  the  in- 
fantry, and  flanked  each  wing  of  the  army.  He  ordered  the  signal 
of  battle  to  be  given ;  and  the  whole  army,  moving  at  once,  and 
singing  the  hymn  or  song  of  Roland,  the  famous  peer  of  Charle- 
magne, advanced,  in  order  and  with  alacrity,  towards  the  enemy. 

Harold  had  seized  the  advantage  of  a  rising  ground,  and,  having 
likewise  drawn  some  trenches  to  secure  his  flanks,  he  resolved  to 
stand  upon  the  defensive,  and  to  avoid  all  action  with  the  cavalry, 
in  which  he  was  inferior.  The  Kentish  men  were  placed  in  the  van 
—  a  post  which  they  had  always  claimed  as  their  due  ;  the  London- 
ers guarded  the  standard ;  and  the  king  himself,  accompanied  by  his 
two  valiant  brothers,  Gurth  and  Leofwin,  dismounting,  placed  him- 
self at  the  head  of  his  infantry,  and  expressed  his  resolution  to 
conquer  or  to  perish  in  the  action.  The  first  attack  of  the  Normans 
was  desperate,  but  was  received  with  equal  valor  by  the  English ; 
and  after  a  furious  combat,  which  remained  long  undecided,  the 
former,  overcome  by  the  difficulty  of  the  ground,  and  hard  pressed 
by  the  enemy,  began  first  to  relax  their  vigor,  then  to  retreat ;  and 
confusion  was  spreading  among  the  ranks,  when  William,  who 
found  himself  on  the  brink  of  destruction,  hastened,  with  a  select 
band,  to  the  relief  of  his  dismayed  forces.  His  presence  restored 
the  action  ;  the  English  were  obliged  to  retire  with  loss  ;  and  the 
duke,  ordering  his  second  line  to  advance,  renewed  the  attack  with 
fresh  forces  and  with  redoubled  courage.  Finding  that  the  enemy,, 
aided  by  the  advantage  of  ground,  and  animated  by  the  example  of 
their  prince,  still  made  a  vigorous  resistance,  he  tried  a  stratagem 
which  was  very  delicate  in  its  management,  but  which  seemed  ad- 
visable in  his  desperate  situation,  where,  if  he  gained  not  a  decisive 
victory,  he  was  totally  undone :  he  commanded  his  troops  to  make 
a  hasty  retreat,  and  to  allure  the  enemy  from  their  ground  by  the 
appearance  of  flight.  The  artifice  succeeded  against  those  inexpe- 
rienced soldiers,  who,  heated  by  the  action,  and  sanguine  in  their 
hopes,  precipitately  followed  the  Normans  into  the  plain.  William 
gave  orders  that  at  once  the  infantry  should  face  about  upon  their 
pursuers,  and  the  cavalry  make  an  assault  upon  their  wings,  and 
both  of  them  pursue  the  advantage,  which  the  surprise  and  terror 
of  the  enemy  must  give  them  in  that  critical  and  decisive  moment. 
The  English  were  repulsed  with  great  slaughter,  and  driven  back  to 
the  hill,  where,  being  rallied  by  the  bravery  of  Harold,  they  were 
able,  notwithstanding  their  loss,  to  maintain  the  post  and  continue 


DAVID    HUME.  I67 

the  combat.  The  duke  tried  the  same  stratagem  a  second  time  with 
the  same  success  ;  but  even  after  this  double  advantage,  he  still 
found  a  great  body  of  the  English,  who,  maintaining  themselves  in 
firm  array,  seemed  determined  to  dispute  the  victory  to  the  last  ex- 
tremity. He  ordered  his  heavy-armed  infantry  to  make  an  assault 
upon  them,  while  his  archers,  placed  behind,  should  gall  the  enemy, 
who  were  exposed  by  the  situation  of  the  ground,  and  who  were 
intent  in  defending  themselves  against  the  swords  and  spears  of 
the  assailants.  By  this  disposition  he  at  last  prevailed :  Harold 
was  slain  by  an  arrow,  while  he  was  combating  with  great  bravery 
at  the  head  of  his  men ;  his  two  brothers  shared  the  same  fate  ; 
and  the  English,  discouraged  by  the  fall  of  those  princes,  gave 
ground  on  all  sides,  and  were  pursued  with  great  slaughter  by  the 
victorious  Normans.  A  few  troops,  however,  of  the  vanquished  had 
still  the  courage  to  turn  upon  their  pursuers,  and,  attacking  them  in 
deep  and  miry  ground,  obtained  some  revenge  for  the  slaughter  and 
dishonor  of  the  day.  But  the  appearance  of  the  duke  obliged  them 
to  seek  their  safety  by  flight ;  and  darkness  saved  them  from  any 
further  pursuit  by  the  enemy. 

Thus  was  gained  by  William,  Duke  of  Normandy,  the  great  and 
decisive  victory  of  Hastings,  after  a  battle  which  was  fought  from 
morning  till  sunset,  and  which  seemed  worthy,  by  the  heroic  valor 
displayed  by  both  armies  and  by  both  commanders,  to  decide  the 
fate  of  a  mighty  kingdom.  William  had  three  horses  killed  under 
him ;  and  there  fell  near  fifteen  thousand  men  on  the  side  of  the 
Normans  :  the  loss  was  still  more  considerable  on  that  of  the  van- 
quished, besides  the  death  of  the  king  and  his  two  brothers.  The 
dead  body  o£  Harold  was  brought  to  William,  and  was  generously 
restored  without  ransom  to  his  mother.  The  Norman  army  left  not 
the  field  of  battle  without  giving  thanks  to  Heaven,  in  the  most  sol- 
emn manner,  for  their  victory  ;  and  the  prince,  having  refreshed  his 
troops,  prepared  to  push  to  the  utmost  his  advantage  against  the 
divided,  dismayed,  and  discomfited  English. 


1 68  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 


LAURENCE   STERNE. 

Laurence  Sterne  was  born  in  17 13,  was  educated  at  Cambridge,  and  took  holy  orders. 
His  chief  work  is  Tristram  Shandy,  a  rambling  rovel  with  the  merest  thread  of  story,  but 
containing  a  few  characters  conceived  and  sketched  with  such  force  and  humor  that  they  are 
as  real  as  historical  portraits.  The  eccentricity  of  treatment  is  copied  from  Rabelais,  but 
the  personages  of  the  story  are  genuine  creations,  and  the  purity  of  style  and  musical  Havt 
of  some  passages  have  never  been  surpassed  in  English.  The  Sentimental  Journey  has 
many  similar  traits.  Both  works  are  stained  by  indelicacies,  doubly  offensive  from  the  peu 
of  a  clergyman.  His  life,  judged  by  his  own  letters,  was  anything  but  creditable  to  his  pro- 
fession.  The  student  who  would  read  a  powerful  and  not  friendly  view  of  Sterne's  char- 
acter  can  consult  Thackeray's  English  Humorists.     Sterne  died  in  1768. 

THE   STORY   OF   LE   FEVRE. 
[From  Tristram  Shandy.] 

It  was  not  till  my  uncle  Toby  had  knocked  the  ashes  out  of  his 
third  pipe  that  Corporal  Trim  returned  from  the  inn,  and  gave  him 
the  following  account :  — 

"  I  despaired  at  first,"  said  the  corporal,  "  of  being  able  to  bring 
back  your  honor  any  kind  of  intelligence  concerning  the  poor,  sick 
heutenant."  "Is  he  in  the  army,  then?"  said  my  uncle  Toby. 
"  He  is,"  said  the  corporal.  "  And  in  what  regiment  ? "  said  my 
uncle  Toby.  "  I'll  tell  your  honor,"  rephed  the  corporal,  "  everything 
straight  forwards,  as  I  learned  it."  "  Then,  Trim,  I'll  fill  another 
pipe,"  said  my  uncle  Toby,  "  and  not  interrupt  thee  till  thou  hast 
done ;  so  sit  down  at  thy  ease,  Trim,  in  the  window-seat,  and  begin 
thy  story  again."  The  corporal  made  his  old  bow,  which  generally 
spoke  as  plain  as  a  bow  could  speak  it,  Vour  honor  is  good :  and 
having  done  that,  he  sat  down  as  he  was  ordered,  and  began  the 
story  to  my  uncle  Toby  over  again  in  pretty  near  the  same  words. 

"  I  despaired  at  first,"  said  the  corporal,  "  of  being  able  to  bring 
back  any  intelligence  to  your  honor  about  the  lieutenant  and  his  son  ; 
for,  when  I  asked  where  his  servant  was,  from  whom  I  made  myself 
sure  of  knowing  everything  which  was  proper  to  be  asked  "  —  "  That's 
a  right  distinction.  Trim,"  said  my  uncle  Toby  —  "  I  was  answered, 
an'  please  your  honor,  that  he  had  no  servant  with  him  ;  that  he 
had  come  to  the  inn  with  hired  horses,  which,  upon  finding  himself 
unable  to  proceed  (to  join,  I  suppose,  the  regiment),  he  had  dis- 
missed the  morning  after  he  came.  'If  I  get  better,  my  dear,' 
said  he,  as  he  gave  his  purse  to  his  son  to  pay  the  man,  '  we  can 
hire  horses  from  hence.'  '  But,  alas  !  the  poor  gentlema^n  will  never 
go  from  hence,'  said  the  landlady  to  me,  '  for  I  heard  the  death- 


LAURENCE   STERNE.  1 69 

watch  all  night  long ;  and,  when  he  dies,  the  youth,  his  son,  will 
certainly  die  with  him  ;  for  he  is  broken-hearted  already.' 

"  I  was  hearing  this  account,"  continued  the  corporal,  "  when  the 
youth  came  into  the  kitchen  to  order  the  thin  toast  the  landlord 
spoke  of.  '  But  I  will  do  it  for  my  father  myself,'  said  the  youth. 
'Pray  let  me  save  you  the  trouble,  young  gentleman,'  said  I,  taking 
up  a  fork  for  the  purpose,  and  offering  him  my  chair  to  sit  down 
upon  by  the  fire  whilst  I  did  it.  '  I  believe,  sir,'  said  he,  very 
modestly,  '  I  can  please  him  best  myself  '  I  am  sure,'  said  I,  'his 
honor  will  not  like  the  toast  the  worse  for  being  toasted  by  an  old 
soldier.'  The  youth  took  hold  of  my  hand,  and  instantly  burst  into 
tears."  "  Poor  youth  !  "  said  my  uncle  Toby  ;  "he  has  been  bred 
up  from  an  infant  in  the  army ;  and  the  name  of  a  soldier.  Trim, 
sounded  in  his  ears  like  the  name  of  a  friend.    I  wish  I  had  him  here." 

"  I  never,  in  the  longest  march,"  said  the  corporal,  "  had  so  great 
a  mind  to  my  dinner,  as  I  had  to  cry  with  him  for  company.  What 
could  be  the  matter  with  me,  an'  please  your  honor  ?  "  "  Nothing 
in  the  world.  Trim,"  said  my  uncle  Toby,  blowing  his  nose,  "but 
that  thou  art  a  good-natured  fellow." 

"  When  I  gave  him  the  toast,"  continued  the  corporal,  "  I  thought 
it  was  proper  to  tell  him  I  was  Captain  Shandy's  servant,  and  that 
your  honor  (though  a  stranger)  was  extremely  concerned  for  his 
father ;  and  that  if  there  was  anything  in  your  house  or  cellar  — " 
"And  thou  mightst  have  added,  my  purse,  too,"  said  my  uncle 
Toby ;  "  he  was  heartily  welcome  to  it.  He  made  a  very  low  bow 
(which  was  meant  to  your  honor),  but  no  answer,  for  his  heart  was 
full ;  so  he  went  up  stairs  with  the  toast.  '  I  warrant  you,  my  dear,' 
said  I,  as  I  opened  the  kitchen  door,  'your  father  will  be  well  again.' 
Mr.  Yorick's  curate  was  smoking  a  pipe  by  the  kitchen  fire  ;  but 
said  not  a  word,  good  or  bad,  to  comfort  the  youth.  I  thought  it 
wrong,"  added  the  corporal.     "  I  think  so,  too,"  said  my  uncle  Toby. 

"  When  the  lieutenant  had  taken  his  glass  of  sack  and  toast,  he 
felt  himself  a  little  revived,  and  sent  down  into  the  kitchen  to  let  me 
know  that,  in  about  ten  minutes,  he  should  be  glad  if  I  would  step 
up  stairs.  '  I  believe,'  said  the  landlord,  '  he  is  going  to  say  his 
prayers  ;  for  there  was  a  book  laid  upon  the  chair  by  his  bedside, 
and,  as  I  shut  the  door,  I  saw  his  son  take  up  a  cushion.' 

" '  I  thought,'  said  the  curate,  '  that  you  gentlemen  of  the  army, 
Mr.  Trim,  never  said  your  prayers  at  all.'  '  I  heard  the  poor  gentle- 
man say  his  prayers  last  night,'  said  the  landlady,  '  very  devoutly, 
and  with  my  own  ears,  or  I  could  not  have  believed  it.'     *  Are  you 


I70  HAND-BOOK    OF   ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

sure  of  it  ? '  replied  the  curate.  '  A  soldier,  an'  please  your  rever- 
ence,' said  I,  'prays  as  often  (of  his  own  accord)  as  a  parson  ;  and 
when  he  is  fighting  for  his  king,  and  for  his  own  life,  and  for  his 
honor,  too,  he  has  the  most  reason  to  pray  to  God  of  any  one  in  the 
whole  world.'  "  "  'Twas  well  said  of  thee.  Trim,"  said  my  uncle  Toby. 
" '  But  when  a  soldier,'  said  I,  'an'  please  your  reverence,  has  been 
standing  for  twelve  hours  together  in  the  trenches,  up  to  his  knees 
in  cold  water,  or  engaged,'  said  I,  'for  months  together,  in  long  and 
dangerous  marches,  harassed,  perhaps,  in  his  rear  to-day,  harass- 
ing others  to-morrow,  detached  here,  countermanded  there,  resting 
this  night  out  upon  his  arms,  beat  up  in  his  shirt  the  next,  benumbed 
in  his  joints,  perhaps  without  straw  in  his  tent  to  kneel  on,  he  must 
say  his  prayers  how  and  when  he  can.  I  believe,'  said  I,  '  for  I  was 
piqued,"  quoth  the  corporal,  "  for  the  reputation  of  the  army,  '  I 
beheve,  an'  please  your  reverence,'  said  I,  'that  when  a  soldier  gets 
time  to  pray,  he  prays  as  heartily  as  a  parson,  though  not  with  all 
his  fuss  and  hypocrisy.'  "  "  Thou  shouldst  not  have  said  that,  Trim," 
said  my  uncle  Toby;  "for  God  only  knows  who  is  a  hypocrite,  and 
who  is  not.  At  the  great  and  general  review  of  us  all,  corporal,  at 
the  day  of  judgment,  and  not  till  then,  it  will  be  seen  who  have 
done  their  duties  in  this  world,  and  who  have  not  ;  and  we  shall  be 
advanced.  Trim,  accordingly."  "  I  hope  we  shall,"  said  Trim.  "  It 
is  in  the  Scripture,"  said  my  uncle  Toby  ;  "  and  I  will  show  it  thee 
to-morrow.  In  the  mean  time  we  may  depend  upon  it.  Trim,  for 
our  comfort,"  said  my  uncle  Toby,  "  that  God  Almighty  is  so  good  and 
just  a  governor  of  the  world,  that  if  we  have  but  done  our  duties  in 
it,  it  will  never  be  inquired  into  whether  we  have  done  them  in  a 
red  coat  or  a  black  one."  "  I  hope  not,"  said  the  corporal.  "  But 
go  on.  Trim,"  said  my  uncle  Toby,  "  with  thy  story." 

"  When  I  went  up,"  continued  the  corporal,  "  into  the  lieutenant's 
room,  which  I  did  not  do  till  the  expiration  of  the  ten  minutes,  he 
was  lying  in  his  bed  with  his  head  raised  upon  his  hand,  with  his 
elbow  upon  the  pillow,  and  a  clean  white  cambric  handkerchief 
beside  it.  The  youth  was  just  stooping  down  to  take  up  the  cushion, 
upon  which  I  supposed  he  had  been  kneeling ;  the  book  was  laid 
upon  the  bed  ;  and,  as  he  arose,  in  taking  up  the  cushion  with  one 
hand,  he  reached  out  his  other  to  take  it  away  at  the  same  time. 
'  Let  it  remain  there,  my  dear,'  said  the  lieutenant. 

"  He  did  not  olTer  to  speak  to  me  till  I  had  walked  up  close  to 
his  bedside.  'If  you  are  Captain  Shandy's  servant,'  said  he,  'you 
must  presen*  my  thanks  to  your  master,  with  my  little  boy's  thanks 


LAURENCE   STERNE.  I7I 

along  with  them,  for  his  courtesy  to  me.  If  he  was  of  Levens's,'  said 
the  Ueutenant.  I  told  him  your  honor  was.  '  Then,'  said  he,  '  I 
served  three  campaigns  with  him  in  Flanders,  and  remember  him; 
but  'tis  most  likely,  as  I  had  not  the  honor  of  any  acquaintance  with 
him,  that  he  knows  nothing  of  me.  You  will  tell  him,  however,  that 
the  person  his  good-nature  has  laid  under  obligations  to  him  is  one 
Le  Fevre,  a  heuteilant  in  Angus's  ;  but  he  knows  me  not,'  said  he,  a 
second  time,  musing  ;  '  possibly  he  may  my  story,'  added  he.  '  Pray 
tell  the  captain  I  was  the  ensign  at  Breda,  whose  wife  was  most 
unfortunately  killed  with  a  musket-shot,  as  she  lay  in  my  arms  in 
my  tent.'  '  I  remember  the  story,  an't  please  your  honor,'  said  I, 
'  very  well.'  '  Do'  you  so  ?  '  said  he,  wiping  his  eyes  with  his  hand- 
kerchief;  '  then  well  may  I.'  In  saying  this,  he  drew  a  little  ring  out 
of  his  bosom,  which  seemed  tied  with  a  black  ribbon  about  his 
neck,  and  kissed  it  twice.  '  Here,  Billy,'  said  he.  The  boy  flew 
across  the  room  to  the  bedside,  and,  falling  down  upon  his  knee, 
took  the  ring  in  his  hand,  and  kissed  it  too,  then  kissed  his  father, 
and  sat  down  upon  the  bed  and  wept. 

"  I  wish,"  said  my  uncle  Toby,  with  a  deep  sigh,  "  I  wish.  Trim,  I 
was  asleep." 

"Your  honor,  replied  the  corporal,  "is  too  much  concerned. 
Shall  I  pour  your  honor  out  a  glass  of  sack  to  your  pipe  ?  "  Do^ 
Trim,"  said  my  uncle  Toby. 

"  I  remember,"  said  my  uncle  Toby,  sighing  again,  "the  story  of 
the  ensign  and  his  wife,  with  a  circumstance  his  modesty  omitted ; 
and  particularly  well  that  he,  as  well  as  she,  upon  some  account  or 
other,  I  forget  what,  was  universally  pitied  by  the  whole  regiment. 
But  finish  the  story  thou  art  upon."  "  'Tis  finished  already,"  said  the 
corporal,  "  for  I  could  stay  no  longer  ;  so  wished  his  honor  a  good 
night."  Young  Le  Fevre  rose  from  off  the  bed,  and  saw  me  to  the 
bottom  of  the  stairs  ;  and,  as  we  went  down  together,  told  me  they 
had  come  from  Ireland,  and  were  on  their  route  to  join  the  regiment 
in  Flanders.  "  But  alas  !  "  said  the  corporal,  "  the  lieutenant's  last 
day's  march  is  over  !  "  "  Then  what  is  to  become  of  his  poor  boy  ? " 
cried  my  uncle  Toby. 

It  was  to  my  uncle  Toby's  eternal  honor,  though  I  tell  it  only 
for  the  sake  of  those  who,  when  cooped  in  betwixt  a  natural  and  a 
positive  law,  know  not,  for  their  souls,  which  way  in  the  world  to 
turn  themselves,  that,  notwithstanding  my  uncle  Toby  was  warmly 
engaged  at  that  time  in  carrying  on  the  siege  of  Dendermond, 
parallel  with  the  allies,  who  premised  theirs  on  so  vigorously  that 


^y^^iTI 


n 


172  HAND-BOOK   OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

they  scarce  allowed  him  Hime  to  get  his  dinner,  —  that  nevertheless 
he  gave  up  Dendermond,  though  he  had  already  made  a  lodgment 
upon  the;, counterscarp,  and  bent  his  whole  thoughts  towards  the 
private  distresses  at  the  inn  ;  and  except  that  he  ordered  the 
garden  gate  to  be  bolted  up,  by  which  he  might  be  said  to  have 
turned  the  siege  of  Dendermond  into  a  blockade,  he  left  Dender- 
mond to  itself,  to  be  relieved,  or  not,  by  the  French  king,  as  the 
French  king  thought  good,  and  only  considered  how  he  himself 
should  relieve  the  poor  lieutenant  and  his  son. 

That  kind  Being,  who  is  a  friend  to  the  friendless,  shall  recom- 
pense thee  for  this. 

"Thou  hast  left  this  matter  short,"  said  my  uncle  Toby  to  the 
corporal,  as  he  was  putting  him  to  bed,  "  and  I  will  tell  thee  in  what, 
Trim  :  in  the  first  place,  when  thou  madest  an  offer  of  my  services 
to  Le  Fevre,  as  sickness  and  travelling  are  both  expensive,  and  thou 
knowest  he  was  but  a  poor  lieutenant,  with  a  son  to  subsist  as  well 
as  himself  out  of  his  pay,  that  thou  didst  not  make  an  offer  to  him 
of  my  purse  ;  because,  had  he  stood  in  need,  thou  knowest.  Trim,  he 
had  been  as  welcome  to  it  as  myself."  "  Your  honor  knows,"  said  the 
corporal,  "  I  had  no  orders."  "  True,"  quoth  my  uncle  Toby  ;  "  thou 
didst  very  right.  Trim,  as  a  soldier,  but  certainly  very  wrong  as  a  man. 
In  the  second  place,  —  for  which,  indeed,  thou  hast  the  same  excuse," 
continued  my  uncle  Toby,  —  "  when  thou  offeredst  him  whatever  was 
in  my  house,  thou  shouldst  have  offered  him  my  house  too.  A  sick 
brother-officer  should  have  the  best  quarters.  Trim ;  and  if  we  had 
him  with  us,  we  could  tend  and  look  to  him.  Thou  art  an  excellent 
nurse  thyself.  Trim ;  and  what  with  thy  care  of  him,  and  the  old 
woman's,  and  his  boy's,  and  mine  together,  we  might  recruit  him 
again  at  once,  and  set  him  upon  his  legs.  In  a  fortnight  or  three 
weeks,"  added  my  uncle  Toby,  smiHng,  "  he  might  march."  "  He 
will  never  march,  an'  please  your  honor,  in  this  world,"  said  the 
corporal.  "  He  will  march,"  said  my  uncle  Toby,  rising  up  from  the 
side  of  the  bed,  with  one  shoe  off.  "  An'  please  your  honor,"  said 
the  corporal,  "  he  will  never  march  but  to  his  grave."  "  He  shall 
march,"  cried  my  uncle  Toby,  marching  the  foot  which  had  a  shoe, 
on,  though  without  advancing  an  inch,  "  he  shall  march  to  his  regi- 
ment." "He  cannot  stand  it,"  said  the  corporal.  "He  shall  bt 
supported,"  said  my  uncle  Toby.  "  He'll  drop  at  last,"  said  the 
corporal,  "  and  what  will  become  of  his  boy  ?  "  "  He  shall  not 
drop,"  said  my  uncle  Toby,  firmly.  "  A-well-a-day  !  do  what  we  can 
for  him,"  said  Trim,  maintaining  his  point,  "the  poor  soul  will  die." 
"  He  shall  not  die,  by  G — ,"  cried  my  uncle  Toby- 


LAURENCE   STERNE.  173 

The  accusing  spirit^  which  flew  up  to  Heaven's  chancery  with    > 
the  oath,  blushed  as  he  gave  it  in  ;  and  the  recording  angel,  as  he 
wrote  it  down,  dropped  a  tear  upon  the  word,  and  blotted  it  out 
.fyrever. 

My  uncle  Toby  went  to  his  bureau,  put  his  purse  into  his 
breeches  pocket,  and,  having  ordered  the  corporal  to  go  early  in  the 
morning  for  a  physician,  he  went  to  bed,  and  fell  asleep. 

The  sun  looked  bright  the  morning  after  to  every  eye  in  the 
village  but  Le  Fevre's  and  his  afflicted  son's  ;  the  hand  of  death 
pressed  heavy  upon  his  eyelids  ;  and  hardly  could  the  wheel  at  the 
cistern  turn  round  its  circle,  when  my  uncle  Toby,  who  had  rose  up 
an  hour  before  his  wonted  time,  entered  the  Heutenant's  room,  and, 
without  preface  or  apology,  sat  himself  down  upon  the  chair  by  the 
bedside,  and,  independently  of  all  modes  and  customs,  opened  the 
curtain  in  the  manner  an  old  friend  and  brother  officer  would  have 
done  it,  and  asked  him  how  he  did  ;  how  he  had  rested  in  the  night ; 
what  was  his  complaint ;  where  was  his  pain  ;  and  what  he  could  do 
to  help  him  ;  and,  without  giving  him  time  to  answer  any  one  of 
these  inquiries,  went  on,  and  told  him  of  the  little  plan  which  he  had 
been  concerting  with  the  corporal  the  night  before  for  him. 

"  You  shall  go  home  directly,  Le  Fevre,"  said  my  uncle  Toby,  "  to 
my  house,  and  we'll  send  for  a  doctor  to  see  what's  the  matter ;  and 
we'll  have  an  apothecary  ;  and  the  corporal  shall  be  your  nurse,  and 
I'll  be  your  servant,  Le  Fevre." 

There  was  a  frankness  in  my  uncle  Toby,  not  the  effect  of  famil- 
iarity, but  the  cause  of  it,  which  let  you  at  once  into  his  soul,  and 
showed  you  the  goodness  of  his  nature.  To  this,  there  was  some- 
thing in  his  looks,  and  voice,  and  manner,  superadded,  which  eternal- 
ly beckoned  to  the  unfortunate  to  come  and  take  shelter  under  him  ; 
so  that,  before  my  uncle  Toby  had  half  finished  the  kind  offers  he 
was  making  to  the  father,  had  the  son  insensibly  pressed  up  close 
to  his  knees,  and  had  taken  hold  of  the  breast  of  his  coat,  and  was 
pulling  it  towards  him.  The  blood  and  spirits  of  Le  Fevre,  which 
were  waxing  cold  and  slow  within  him,  and  were  retreating  to  their 
last  citadel,  the  heart,  rallied  back  ;  the  film  forsook  his  eyes  for  a 
moment ;  he  looked  up  wishfully  in  my  uncle  Toby's  face,  then  cast 
a  look  upon  his  boy  ;  and  that  ligament,  fine  as  it  was,  was  never 
broken. 

Nature  instantly  ebbed  again  ;  the  film  returned  to  its  place  ;  the 
pulse  fluttered  —  stopped  —  went  on  —  throbbed  —  stopped  again  — 
moved  —  stopped.  —  Shall  I  go  on  ?    No. 


/  ) 


174  HAND-BOOK    OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

THE    STARLING. 
[From  the  Sentimental  Journey.] 

And  as  for  the  Bastile,  the  terror  is  in  the  word.  Make  the  most 
of  it  you  can,  said  I  to  myself,  the  Bastile  is  but  another  word  for 
a  tower,  and  a  tower  is  but  another  word  for  a  house  you  can't  get 
out  of.  Mercy  on  the  gouty  !  for  they  are  in  it  twice  a  year.  But 
with  nine  livres  a  day,  and  pen,  and  ink,  and  paper,  and  patience, 
albeit  a  man  can't  get  out,  he  may  do  very  well  within,  at  least  for  a 
month  or  six  weeks,  at  the  end  of  which,  if  he  is  a  harmless  fellow, 
his  innocence  appears,  and  he  comes  out  a  better  and  wiser  man 
than  he  went  in. 

I  had  some  occasion  —  I  forget  what  —  to  step  into  the  court-yard, 
as  I  settled  this  account,  and  remember  I  walked  down  stairs  in  no 
small  triumph  with  the  conceit  of  my  reasoning.  "  Beshrew  the 
sombre  pencil !  "  said  I,  vauntingly ;  "for  I  envy  not  its  power,  which 
paints  the  evils  of  life  with  so  hard  and  deadly  a  coloring.  The 
mind  sits  terrified  at  the  objects  she  has  magnified  herself,  and  black- 
ened. Reduce  them  to  their  proper  size  and  hue,  she  overlooks  them^  ^^ 
'Tis  true,"  said  I,  correcting  the  proposition,  "the  Bastile  is  not^J- 
an  evil  to  be  despised.  But  strip  it  of  its  towers,  fill  up  the  foss^ 
unbarricade  the  doors,  call  it  simply  a  confinement,  and  suppose  'tis 
some  tyrant  of  a  distemper,  and  not  of  a  man,  which  holds  you  in  it, 
the  evil  vanishes,  and  you  bear  the  other  half  without  complaint." 

I  was  interrupted  in  the  hey-day  of  this  soliloquy  with  a  voice 
which  I  took  to  be  of  a  child,  which  complained  it  could  not  get 
out.  I  looked  up  and  down  the  passage,  and,  seeing  neither  man, 
woman,  nor  child,  I  went  out  without  further  attention. 

In  my  return  back  through  the  passage,  I  heard  the  same  words 
repeated  twice  over  ;  and,  looking  up,  I  saw  it  was  a  starling,  hung 
in  a  httle  cage.  "I  can't  get  out  —  I  can't  get  out,"  said  the 
starling. 

I  stood  looking  at  the  bird  ;  and  to  every  person  who  came 
through  the  passage  it  ran  fluttering  to  the  side  towards  which  they 
approached  it,  with  the  same  lamentation  of  its  captivity.  "  I  can't 
get  out,"  said  the  starling.  "  God  help  thee  !  "  said  I  ;  "  but  I'll  let 
thee  out,  cost  what  it  will."  So  I  turned  about  the  cage  to  get  the 
door.  It  was  twisted  and  double  twisted  so  fast  with  wire  there  was 
no  getting  it  open  without  puUing  the  cage  to  pieces.  I  took  both 
hands  to  it. 

The  bird  flew  to  the  place  where  I  was  attempting  his  deliverance, 


LAURENCE   STERNE.  I75 

and,  thrusting  his  head  through  the  trellis,  pressed  his  breast  against 
it,  as  if  impatient.  "  I  fear,  poor  creature,"  said  I,  "  I  cannot  set 
thee  at  liberty."  "  No,"  said  the  starling ;  "  I  can't  get  out  —  I 
can't  get  out." 

I  vow  I  never  had  my  affections  more  tenderly  awakened,  nor  do 
I  remember  an  incident  in  my  life  where  the  dissipated  spirits  to 
which  my  reason  had  been  a  bubble  were  so  suddenly  called  home. 
Mechanical  as  the  notes  were,  yet  so  true  in  tune  to  nature  were 
they  chanted,  that  in  one  moment  they  overthrew  all  my  systematic 
reasonings  upon  the  Bastile  ;  and  I  heavily  walked  up  stairs,  unsay- 
ing every  word  I  had  said  in  going  down  them. 

"Disguise  thyself  as  thou  wilt,  still,  Slavery,"  said  I,  "still  thou 
art  a  bitter  draught  ;  and  though  thousands  in  all  ages  have  been 
made  to  drink  of  thee,  thou  art  no  less  bitter  on  that  account.  'Tis 
thou,  thrice  sweet  and  gracious  goddess,"  —  addressing  myself  to 
Liberty,  —  "whom  all,  in 'public  or  in  private,  worship,  whose  taste 
is  grateful,  and  ever  will  be  so,  till  Nature  herself  shall  change.  No 
tint  of  words  can  spot  thy  snowy  mantle,  nof^ymic  power  turn  thy 
sceptre  into  iron.  With  thee  to  smile  upon  him  as  he  eats  his  crust, 
the  swain  is  happier  than  his  monarch,  from  whose  court  thou  art 
exiled.  Gracious  Heaven  !  "  cried  I,  kneehng  down  upon  the  last  step 
but  one  in  my  ascent,  "grant  me  but  health,  thou  great  Bestower  of 
it,  and  give  me  but  this  fair  goddess  as  my  companion,  and  shower 
down  thy  mitres,  if  it  seem  good  unto  thy  divine  providence,  upon 
those  heads  which  are  aching  for  them." 

The  bird  in  his  cage  pursued  me  into  my  room.  I  sat  down  close 
by  my  table,  and,  leaning  my  head  upon  my  hand,  I  began  to  figure 
to  myself  the  miseries  of  confinement.  I  was  in  a  right  frame  for 
it,  and  so  I  gave  full  scope  to  my  imagination. 

I  was  going  to  begin  with  the  millions  of  my  fellow-creatures  born 
to  no  inheritance  but  slavery ;  but  finding,  however  affecting  the  pic- 
ture was,  that  I  could  not  bring  it  near  me,  and  that  the  multitude 
of  sad  groups  in  it  did  but  distract  me,  I  took  a  single  captive,  and, 
having  first  shut  him  up  in  his  dungeon,  I  then  looked  through  the 
twilight  of  his  grated  door  to  take  his  picture. 

I  beheld  his  body  half  wasted  away  with  long  expectation  and 
confinement,  and  felt  what  kind  of  sickness  of  the  heart  it  was  which 
arises  from  hope  deferred.  Upon  looking  nearer,  I  saw  him  pale 
and  feverish.  In  thirty  years  the  western  breeze  had  not  once 
fanned  his  blood.  He  had  seen  no  sun,  no  moon,  in  all  that  time, 
nor  had  the  voice  of  friend  or  kinsman  breathed  through  his  lattice. 
His  children !  — 


IJb  HAND-llOOK   OF   ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

But  here  my  heart  began  to  bleed,  and  I  was  forced  to  go  on  with 
another  part  of  the  portrait. 

He  was  sitting  upon  the  ground,  upon  a  little  straw,  in  the  farthest 
corner  of  his  dungeon,  which  was  alternately  his  chair  and  bed.  A 
little  calendar  of  small  sticks  was  laid  at  the  head,  notched  all  over 
with  the  dismal  days  and  nights  he  had  passed  there.  He  had  one 
of  these  little  sticks  in  his  hand,  and  with  a  rusty  nail  he  was  etch- 
ing another  day  of  misery  to  add  to  the  heap.  As  I  darkened  the 
little  light  he  had,  he  lifted  up  a  hopeless  eye  towards  the  door,  then 
cast  it  down,  shook  his  head,  and  went  on  with  his  work  of  afflic- 
tion. I  heard  his  chains  upon  his  legs  as  he  turned  his  body  to  lay 
his  little  stick  upon  the  bundle.  He  gave  a  deep  sigh.  I  saw  the 
iron  enter  into  his  soul.  I  burst  into  tears.  I  could  not  sustain 
the  picture  of  confinement  which  my  fancy  had  drawn. 


THOMAS    GRAY. 

Thomas  Gray  was  bom  in  London  in  1716,  and  was  educated  at  Eton  and  at  Cambridge. 
Excepting  a  continental  tour  in  company  with  Horace  Walpole,  his  life  was  marked  by  no 
incident  worth  mention.  He  lived  as  a  resident  fellow  at  Cambridge,  a  literary  celibate  — 
considered  one  of  the  most  learned  men  of  the  time,  but  without  any  active  occupation. 
He  was  a  person  of  refined  taste,  and  what  might  be  termed  superfine  manners,  but  in  socie- 
ty was  silent,  if  not  dull.     He  died  in  1771. 

His  few  productions  —  The  Progress  of  Poesy,  the  Odes,  and  the  Elegy  —  have  given 
him  a  place  among  the  first  of  English  poets.  Though  the  fire  of  an  original,  glowing 
mind,  the  spontaneous  flow  of  lyric  verse,  are  wholly  wanting,  —  though  the  scholar  can  trace 
every  one  of  his  picturesque  epithets  to  their  origin  in  older  poems,  as  the  shining  bits  of  a 
mosaic  are  referred  to  their  several  sources,  —  still  his  sentiments  are  so  in  accord  with  our 
better  nature,  his  images  are  so  appropriate  in  themselves,  and  so  exquisitely  toned,  and  the 
whole  composition  pervaded  by  such  perfect  and  unobtrusive  art,  that  few  authors,  even  of  a 
higher  order  of  genius,  have  attained  such  enduring  renOwn.  After  the  lapse  of  a  century, 
in  which  the  works  and  the  reputations  of  so  many  poets  have  gone  to  oblivion.  Dr.  John- 
son's wholesale  condemnation  of  Gray  is  an  instructive  lesson  to  critics.  The  Lives  of  the 
Poets  seems  now,  for  the  most  part,  like  a  neglected  churchyaid. 

ELEGY   WRITTEN   IN   A   COUNTRY   CHURCHYARD. 

The  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day, 
The  lowing  herd  winds  slowly  o'er  the  lea, 

The  ploughman  homeward  plods  his  weary  way, 
And  leaves  the  world  to  darkness  and  to'  me. 

Now  fades  the  glimmering  landscape  on  the  sight, 

And  all  the  air  a  solemn  stillness  holds. 
Save  where  the  beetle  wheels  his  droning  flight, 

And  drowsy  tinklings  lull  the  distant  folds,  — 


THOMAS    GRAY.  VJ'l 

Save  that  fiom  yonder  ivy-mantled  tower 
The  moping  owl  does  to  the  moon  complain 

Of  such  as,  wandering  near  her  secret  bower, 
Molest  her  ancient,  solitary  reign. 

Beneath  those  nigged  elms,  that  yew  tree's  shade, 
Where  heaves  the  turf  in  many  a  mouldering  heap, 

Each  in  his  narrow  cell  forever  laid, 

The  rude  forefathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep. 

The  breezy  call  of  incense-breathing  morn, 
The  swallow  twittering  from  the  straw-built  shed, 

The  cock's  shrill  clarion,  or  the  echoing  horn 
No  more  shall  rouse  them  from  their  lowly  bed. 

For  them  no  more  the  blazing  hearth  shall  burn, 

Or  busy  housewife  ply  her  evening  care  ; 
No  children  run  to  lisp  their  sire's  return. 

Or  climb  his  knees  the  envied  kiss  to  share. 

Oft  did  the  harvest  to  their  sickle  yield. 
Their  furrow  oft  the  stubborn  glebe  has  broke. 

How  jocund  did  they  drive  their  team  afield  ! 

How  bowed  the  woods  beneath  their  sturdy  stroke  ! 

Let  not  ambition  mock  their  useful  toil, 

Their  homely  joys,  and  destiny  obscure. 
Nor  grandeur  hear  with  a  disdainful  smile 

The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor. 

The  boast  of  heraldry,  the  pomp  of  power. 
And  all  that  beauty,  all  that  wealth  e'er  gave, 

Await  alike  the  inevitable  hour. 
The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave. 

Nor  you,  ye  proud,  impute  to  these  the  fault. 
If  memory  o'er  their  tomb  no  trophies  raise. 

Where,  through  the  long-drawn  aisle  and  fretted  vault. 
The  pealing  anthem  swells  the  note  of  praise. 

Can  storied  urn  or  animated  bust 

Back  to  its  mansion  call  the  fleeting  breath  ? 

Can  honor's  voice  provoke  the  silent  dust. 
Or  flattery  soothe  the  dull,  cold  ear  of  death  t 

12 


[78  HAND-BOOK   OF  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

Perhaps  in  this  neglected  spot  is  laid 

Some  heart  once  pregnant  with  celestial  fire  — 

Hands  that  the  rod  of  empire  might  have  swayed, 
Or  waked  to  ecstasy  the  Hving  lyre ;  — 

But  Knowledge  to  their  eyes  her  ample  page, 
Rich  with  the  spoils  of  time,  did  ne'er  unroll ; 

Chill  penury  repressed  their  noble  rage. 
And  froze  the  genial  current  of  the  soul. 

Full  many  a  gem  of  purest  ray  serene 

The  dark,  unfathomed  caves  of  ocean  bear  : 

Full  many  a  flower  is  born  to  blush  unseen. 
And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air. 

Some  village  Hampden,  that,  with  dauntless  breast, 

The  little  tyrant  of  his  fields  withstood, 
Some  mute,  inglorious  Milton  here  may  rest. 

Some  Cromwell,  guiltless  of  his  country's  blood. 

The  applause  of  listening  senates  to  command, 

The  threats  of  pain  and  ruin  to  despise, 
To  scatter  plenty  o'er  a  smiling  land, 

And  read  their  history  in  a  nation's  eyes,  — 

Their  lot  forbade  ;  nor  circumscribed  alone 
Their  growing  virtues,  but  their  crimes  confined  — 

Forbade  to  walk  through  slaughter  to  a  throne, 
And  shut  the  gates  of  mercy  on  mankind,  -r- 

The  struggling  pangs  of  conscious  truth  to  hide. 
To  quench  the  blushes  of  ingenuous  shame. 

Or  heap  the  shrine  of  luxury  and  pride 
With  incense  kindled  at  the  Muse's  flame. 

Far  from  the  madding  crowd's  ignoble  strife 
Their  sober  wishes  never  learned  to  stray  ; 

Along  the  cool,  sequestered  vale  of  life 
They  kept  the  noiseless  tenor  of  their  way. 

Yet  even  these  bones  from  insult  to  protect, 

Some  frail  memorial  still  erected  nigh,  «^ 

With  uncouth  rhymes  and  shapeless  sculpture  decked, 
Implores  the  passing  tribute  of  a  sigh. 


THOMAS    GRAY.  179 

Their  name,  their  years,  spelt  by  the  unlettered  muse, 

The  place  of  fame  and  elegy  supply. 
And  many  a  holy  text  around  she  strews, 

That  teach  the  rustic  moralist  to  die. 

For  who,  to  dumb  forgetfulness  a  prey, 

This  pleasing,  anxious  being  e'er  resigned, 
Left  the  warm  precincts  of  the  cheerful  day, 

Nor  cast  one  longing,  lingering  look  behind  ? 

On  some  fond  breast  the  parting  soul  relies  ; 

Some  pious  drops  the  closing  eye  requires  ; 
E'en  from  the  tomb  the  voice  of  nature  cries  ; 

E'en  in  our  ashes  live  their  wonted  fires. 

For  thee,  who,  mindful  of  the  unhonored  dead. 

Dost  in  these  lines  their  artless  tale  relate, 
If  chance,  by  lonely  contemplation  led. 

Some  kindred  spirit  shall  inquire  thy  fate,  — 

Haply  some  hoary-headed  swain  may  say, 
"  Oft  have  we  seen  him,  at  the  peep  of  dawn, 

Brushing,  with  hasty  steps,  the  dews  away. 
To  meet  the  sun  upon  the  upland  lawn. 

"  There,  at  the  foot  of  yonder  nodding  beech 
That  wreathes  its  old,  fantastic  roots  so  high, 

His  listless  length  at  noontide  would  he  stretch, 
And  pore  upon  the  brook  that  babbles  by. 

"  Hard  by  yon  wood,  now  smiling  as  in  scorn. 
Muttering  his  wayward  fancies,  he  would  rove  ; 

Now  drooping,  woful-wan,  like  one  forlorn. 

Or  crazed  with  care,  or  crossed  in  hopeless  love. 

"  One  morn  I  missed  him  on  the  accustomed  hill, 

Along  the  heath,  and  near  his  favorite  tree. 
Another  came,  nor  yet  beside  the  rill. 

Nor  up  the  lawn,  nor  at  the  wood  was  he. 

"  The  next,  with  dirges  due  in  sad  array, 

Slow  through  the  church-way  path  we  saw  him  borne. 
Approach  and  read  —  for  thou  canst  read  — ^  the  lay 

Graved  on  the  stone  beneath  yon  aged  thorn." 


l80  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    LITERATURE 


THE   EPITAPH. 


Here  rests  his  head  upon  the  lap  of  earth 

A  youth  to  fortune  and  to  fame  unknown. 
Fair  Science  frowned  not  on  his  humble  birth, 

And  Melancholy  marked  him  for  her  own. 

Large  was  his  bounty,  and  his  soul  sincere  ; 

Heaven  did  a  recompense  as  largely  send  : 
He  gave  to  misery  —  all  he  had  —  a  tear, 

He  gained  from  Heaven  —  'twas  all  he  wished  —  a  friend. 

No  farther  seek  his  merits  to  disclose. 

Or  draw  his  frailties  from  their  dread  abode,  — 

There  they  alike  in  trembling  hope  repose,  — 
The  bosom  of  his  Father  and  his  God. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  FAVORITE  CAT,  DROWNED  IN  A  TUB  OF 
GOLDFISHES. 

'TwAS  on  a  lofty  vase's  side, 
Where  China's  gayest  art  had  dyed 

The  azure  flowers  that  blow, 
Demurest  of  the  tabby  kind, 
The  pensive  Selima,  reclined. 

Gazed  on  the  lake  below. 

Her  conscious  tail  her  joy  declared  ; 
The  fair,  round  face,  the  snowy  beard, 

The  velvet  of  her  paws, 
Her  coat  that  with  the  tortoise  vies. 
Her  ears  of  jet,  and  emerald  eyes, 

She  saw,  and  purred  applause. 

Still  had  she  gazed  ;  but  'midst  the  tide 
Two  angel  forms  were  seen  to  glide  — 

The  genii  of  the  stream. 
Their  scaly  armor's  Tyrian  hue 
Through  richest  purple  to  the  view 

Betrayed  a  golden  gleam. 

The  hapless  nymph  with  wonder  saw, 
A  whisker  first,  and  then  a  claw  ; 


THOMAS   GRAY.  l8l 

With  many  an  ardent  wish, 
She  stretched  in  vain  to  reach  the  prize. 
What  female  heart  can  gold  despise  ? 

What  cat's  averse  to  fish  ? 

Presumptuous  maid  !  with  looks  intent, 
Again  she  stretched,  again  she  bent, 

Nor  knew  the  gulf  between. 
(Mahgnant  Fate  sat  by,  and  smiled.) 
The  slippery  verge  her  feet  beguiled  ; 

She  tumbled  headlong  in. 

Eight  times  emerging  from  the  flood, 
She  mewed  to  every  watery  god 

Some  speedy  aid  to  send. 
No  dolphin  came,  no  Nereid  stirred, 
No  cruel  Tom  nor  Susan  heard. 

A  favorite  has  no  friend. 

From  hence,  ye  beauties,  undeceived, 
Know,  one  false  step  is  ne'er  retrieved. 

And  be  with  caution  bold. 
Not  all  that  tempts  your  wandering  eyes 
And  heedless  hearts  is  lawful  prize, 

Nor  all  that  glisters  gold. 


THE   PROGRESS   OF   POESY. 

A   PINDARIC  ODE. 
I.        I. 

Awake,  y^olian  lyre,  awake, 
And  give  to  rapture  all  thy  trembling  strings. 
From  Helicon's  harmonious  springs 

A  thousand  rills  their  mazy  progress  take ; 
The  laughing  flowers  that  round  them  blow 
Drink  life  and  fragrance  as  they  flow. 
Now  the  rich  stream  of  music  winds  along, 
Deep,  majestic,  smooth,  and  strong, 
Through  verdant  vales,  and  Ceres'  golden  reign  ; 
Now  rolling  down  the  steep  amain. 
Headlong,  impetuous,  see  it  pour ; 
The  rocks  and  nodding  groves  rebellow  to  the  roar. 


1 8?  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

I.      2. 

O,  sovereign  of  the  willing  soul, 
Parent  of  sweet  and  solemn-breathing  airs  ! 
Enchanting  shell  !  the  sullen  cares 

And  frantic  passions  hear  thy  soft  control. 
On  Thracia's  hills  the  Lord  of  War 
Has  curbed  the  fury  of  his  car, 
And  dropped  his  thirsty  lance  at  thy  command. 
Perching  on  the  sceptred  hand 
Of  Jove,  thy  magic  lulls  the  feathered  king 
With  ruffled  plumes  and  flagging  wing  ; 
Quenched  in  dark  clouds  of  slumber  lie 
The  terror  of  his  beak,  and  lightnings  of  his  eye. 

I-    3. 
Thee  the  voice,  tlie  dance,  obey, 
Tempered  to  thy  warbled  lay. 
O'er  Idalia's  velvet  green 
The  rosy-crowned  Loves  are  seen 
On  Cytherea's  day  ; 

With  antic  Sport  and  blue-eyed  Pleasures, 
Frisking  light  in  frolic  measures. 
Now  pursuing,  now  retreating. 

Now  in  circling  troops  they  meet. 
To  brisk  notes  in  cadence  beating. 

Glance  their  many-twinkling  feet. 
Slow,  melting  strains  their  queen's  approach  declare 

Where'er  she  turns,  the  Graces  homage  pay. 
With  arms  sublime,  that  float  upon  the  air, 

In  gliding  state  she  wins  her  easy  way. 
O'er  her  warm  cheek  and  rising  bosom  move 
The  bloom  of  young  Desire  and  purple  light  of  Lov 

IL      I. 

Man's  feeble  race  what  ills  await ! 
Labor,  and  Penury,  the  racks  of  Pain, 
Disease,  and  Sorrow's  weeping  train. 

And  Death,  sad  refuge  from  the  storms  of  fate  ! 
The  fond  complaint,  my  song,  disprove, 
And  justify  the  laws  of  Jove. 
Say,  has  he  given  in  vain  the  heavenly  Muse  .'' 
Night,  and  all  her  sickly  dews. 


THOMAS   GRAY.  183 

Her  spectres  wan,  and  birds  of  boding  cry, 

He  gives  to  range  tlie  dreary  sky ; 

Till  down  the  eastern  cliffs  afar 

Hyperion's  march  they  spy,  and  glittering  shafts  of  war. 

II.     2. 

In  climes  beyond  the  solar  road, 
Where  shaggy  forms  o'er  ice-built  mountains  roam, 
The  Muse  has  broke  the  twilight  gloom 

To  cheer  the  shivering  native's  dull  abode. 
And  oft,  beneath  the  odorous  shade 
Of  Chili's  boundless  forests  laid, 
She  deigns  to  hear  the  savage  youth  repeat, 
In  loose  numbers  wildly  sweet. 
Their  feather-cinctured  chiefs  and  dusky  loves. 
Her  track,  where'er  the  goddess  roves, 
Glory  pursue,  and  generous  Shame, 
The  unconquerable  Mind,  and  Freedom's  holy  flame. 

II.  3- 

Woods  that  wave  o'er  Delphi's  steep, 
Isles  that  crown  the  JEgean  deep,     * 

Fields  that  cool  Ilissus  laves. 

Or  where  Maeander's  amber  waves 
In  lingering  labyrinths  creep, 

How  do  your  tuneful  echoes  languish, 

Mute,  but  to  the  voice  of  anguish  ! 
Where  each  old  poetic  mountain 

Inspiration  breathed  around  ; 
Every  shade  and  hallowed  fountain 

Murmured  deep  a  solemn  sound, 
Till  the  sad  Nine,  in  Greece's  evil  hour. 

Left  their  Parnassus  for  the  Latian  plains. 
Alike  they  scorn  the  pomp  of  tyrant  Power 

And  coward  Vice  that  revels  in  her  chains. 
When  Latium  had  her  lofty  spirit  lost, 
They  sought,  O  Albion  !  next  thy  sea-encircled  coast. 

III.  I. 

Far  from  the  sun  and  summer  gale. 
In  thy  green  lap  was  Nature's  darling  laid,   . 
What  time,  where  lucid  Avon  strayed, 


l84  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

To  him  the  mighty  mother  did  unveil 
Her  awful  face  :  the  dauntless  child 
Stretched  forth  his  little  arms,  and  smiled. 
"  This  pencil  take,"  she  said,  "  whose  colors  clear 
Richly  paint  the  vernal  year. 
Thine,  too,  these  golden  keys,  immortal  boy ; 
This  can  unlock  the  gates  of  joy. 
Of  horror  that,  and  thrilling  fears. 
Or  ope  the  sacred  source  of  sympathetic  tears." 

III.       2. 

Nor  second  he  that  rode  sublime 
Upon  the  seraph  wings  of  Ecstasy 
The  secrets  of  the  abyss  to  spy. 

He  passed  the  flaming  bounds  of  place  and  time ; 
The  living  throne,  the  sapphire  blaze, 
Where  angels  tremble  while  they  gaze, 
He  saw ;  but,  blasted  with  excess  of  light, 
Closed  his  eyes  in  endless  night. 
Behold,  where  Dryden's  less  presumptuous  car, 
Wide  o'er  the  fields  of  glory  bear 
Two  coursers  of  ethereal  race. 
With  necks  in  thunder  clothed,  and  long-resounding  pace 

in.     3. 

Hark  !  his  hands  the  lyre  explore  ! 
Bright-eyed  Fancy,  hovering  o'er. 
Scatters  from  her  pictured  urn 
Thoughts  that  breathe,  and  words  that  burn. 
But,  ah  !  'tis  heard  no  more. 

O,  lyre  divine  !  what  daring  spirit 
Wakes  thee  now  ?     Though  he  inherit 
Nor  the  pride  nor  ample  pinion 
That  the  Theban  eagle  bear. 
Sailing  with  supreme  dominion 

Through  the  azure  deep  of  air  : 
Yet  oft  before  his  infant  eyes  would  run 

Such  forms  as  glitter  in  the  Muse's  ray, 
With  orient  hues,  unborrowed  of  the  sun  ; 

Yet  shall  he  mount,  and  keep  his  distant  way 
Beyond  the  limits  of  a  vulgar  fate, 
Beneath  the  good  how  far,  —  but  far  above  the  great. 


HORACE  WALPOLE.  I05 


HORACE   WALPOLE. 


Horace  Walpole  was  born  in  1717,  succeeded  to  his  father's  title  as  Earl  of  Orford  in 
1791,  and  died  in  1797.  He  received  from  his  father,  for  many  years  prime  minister,  a  num- 
ber of  sinecure  offices,  which  enabled  him  to  gratify  his  artistic  tastes  by  collecting  an  im- 
mense museum  of  curiosities  and  relics  of  ancient  art  in  his  villa  at  Strawberry  Hill.  The 
catalogue  alone  of  these  treasures  would  make  a  respectable  volume.  He  was  an  inveterate 
letter  writer  ;  and  his  native  sprightliness,  his  unusual  facilities  for  obtaining  early  and  ac- 
curate information,  together  with  his  long  practice  in  writing,  served  to  make  his  correspon- 
dence the  most  lively  and  entertaining,  if  not  the  most  finished,  in  the  language.  The  style 
is  always  simple  and  direct ;  if  the  sentences  cost  him  any  labor,  no  marks  of  revision  can 
be  seen.  He  wrote  one  grotesque,  or  supernatural  romance,  The  Casde  of  Otranto,  which 
was  very  popular  for  some  time.  He  also  wrote  a  tragedy,  which  was  never  performed. 
His  sympathy  with  the  American  colonies,  as  well  as  his  dislike  of  Dr.  Johnson,  as  shown 
in  the  extracts  following,  proceeded  rather  from  his  partisan  feelings  than  from  any  leaning 
towards  liberty,  or  any  just  appreciation  of  Johnson's  character.  He  was  not  wholly  a  tri- 
fler,  certainly  not  a  statesman,  and  he  was  content  with  cultivating  a  taste  that  was  curious 
rather  than  refined,  and  with  chronicling  court  scandal  and  the  politics  of  the  privy  closet, 
instead  of  aspiring  to  the  place  among  active  men  which  his  clever  intellect  and  fortunate 
birth  might  have  secured  him.  His  letters  have  been  published  in  eight  volumes  He  also 
wrote  a  work  entitled  Royal  and  Noble  Authors. 

WALPOLE'S   letters   to   sir   HORACE   MANN. 

[A  Description  of  Lady  M.  W.  Montagu.] 

I  AM  ashamed  to  tell  you  that  we  are  again  dipped  into  an  egre- 
gious scene  of  folly.  The  reigning  fashion  is  a  ghost  —  a  ghost  that 
would  not  pass  muster  in  the  paltriest  convent  in  the  Apennine.  It 
only  knocks  and  scratches  ;  does  not  pretend  to  appear  or  to  speak. 
The  clergy  give  it  their  benediction  ;  and  all  the  world,  whether  be- 
lievers or  infidels,  go  to  hear  it.  I,  in  which  number  you  may  guess, 
go  to-morrow ;  for  it  is  as  much  the  mode  to  visit  the  ghost  as  the 
Prince  of  Mecklenburg,  who  is  just  arrived.  I  have  not  seen  him 
yet,  though  I  have  left  my  name  for  him.  But  I  will  tell  you  who  is 
come,  too  —  Lady  Mary  Wortley.  I  went  last  night  to  visit  her.  I 
give  you  my  honor,  —  and  you,  who  know  her,  would  credit  me  without 
it,  —  the  following  is  a  faithful  description.  I  found  her  in  a  little  mis- 
erable bed-chamber  of  a  ready-furnished  house,  with  two  tallow  can- 
dles, and  a  bureau  covered  with  pots  and  pans.  On  her  head,  in  full 
of  all  accounts,  she  had  an  old  black-laced  hood,  wrapped  entirely 
round,  so  as  to  conceal  all  hair  or  want  of  hair.  No  handkerchief, 
but  up  to  her  chin  a  kind  of  horseman's  riding-coat,  calling  itself  a 
pet-en-l  ^air,  made  of  a  dark  green  (green  I  think  it  had  been)  bro- 
cade, with  colored  and  silver  flowers,  and  lined  with  furs  ;  bodice 
laced,  a  foul  dimity  petticoat  sprigged,  velvet  muifeteens  on  her  arms, 
gray  stockings  and  slippers.     Her  face  less  changed  in  twenty  years 


l86  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

than  I  could  have  imagined  ;  I  told  her  so,  and  she  was  not  so  tol- 
erable twenty  years  ago  that  she  needed  have  taken  it  for  flattery ; 
but  she  did,  and  literally  gave  me  a  box  on  the  ear.  She  is  very 
lively,  all  her  senses  perfect,  her  languages  as  imperfect  as  ever,  her 
avarice  greater.  She  entertained  me  at  first  with  nothing  but  the 
dearness  of  provisions  at  Helvoet.  With  nothing  but  an  Italian,  a 
French,  and  a  Prussian,  all  men  servants,  and  something  she  calls 
an  old  secretary,  but  whose  age  till  he  appears  will  be  doubtful,  she 
receives  all  the  world,  who  go  to  homage  her  as  Queen  Mother,  and 
crams  them  into  this  kennel.  The  Duchess  of  Hamilton,  who  came 
in  just  after  me,  was  so  astonished  and  diverted,  that  she  could  not 
speak  to  her  for  laughing.  She  says  that  she  has  left  all  her  clothes 
at  Venice.  I  really  pity  Lady  Bute.  What  will  the  progress  be  of 
such  a  commencement ! 


UPON   AMERICAN   INDEPENDENCE. 

You  have  seen  the  accounts  from  Boston.  The  tocsin  seems  to 
be  sounded  to  America.  I  have  many  visions  about  that  country, 
and  fancy  I  see  twenty  empires  and  republics  forming  upon  vast 
scales  over  all  that  continent,  which  is  growing  too  mighty  to  be  kept 
in  subjection  to  half  a  dozen  exhausted  nations  in  Europe.  As  the 
latter  sinks,  and  the  others  rise,  they  who  live  between  the  eras  will 
be  a  sort  of  Noahs,  witnesses  to  the  period  of  the  old  world  and  ori- 
gin of  the  new.  I  entertain  myself  with  the  idea  of  a  future  senate 
in  Carolina  and  Virginia,  where  their  patriots  will  harangue  on  the 
austere  and  incorruptible  virtue  of  the  ancient  English  !  will  tell  their 
auditors  of  our  disinterestedness  and  scorn  of  bribes  and  pensions, 
and  make  us  blush  in  our  graves  at  their  ridiculous  panegyrics  ! 
Who  knows  but  even  our  Indian  usurpations  and  villanies  may  be- 
come topics  of  praise  to  American  school-boys  ?  As  I  believe  our 
virtues  are  extremely  hke  those  of  our  predecessors,  the  Romans, 
so  I  am  sure  our  luxury  and  extravagance  are,  too. 


LORD   MACAULAY'S   VISION. 

For  our  part,  I  repeat  it,  we  shall  contribute  nothing  to  the  Histoire 
des  Moeurs^  not  for  want  of  materials,  but  for  want  of  writers.  We 
have  comedies  without  novelty,  gross  satires  without  stings,  meta- 
physical eloquence,  and  antiquarians  that  discover  nothing. 

^  BoeotClm  in  crasso  jurares  acre  natos  !    (See  Appendix.) 


HORACE   WALPOLE.  187 

Don't  tell  me  I  am  grown  old,  and  peevish,  and  supercilious  ;  name 
the  geniuses  of  1774,  and  I  submit.  The  next  Augustan  age  will 
dawn  on  the  other  side  of  the  Atlantic.  There  will,  perhaps,  be  a 
Thucydides  at  Boston,  a  Xenophon  at  New  York,  and,  in  time,  a 
Virgil  at  Mexico,  and  a  Newton  at  Peru.  At  last,  some  curious  trav- 
eller from  Lima  will  visit  England,  and  give  a  description  of  the  ruins 
of  St.  Paul's,  hke  the  editions  of  Baalbec  and  Palmyra.  But  am  I  not 
prophesying,  contrary  to  my  consummate  prudence,  and  casting  horo- 
scopes of  empires,  like  Rousseau  ?  Yes  ;  well,  I  will  go  and  dream 
of  my  visions. 


PROGRESS   OF   THE   AMERICAN   WAR. 

Strawberry  Hill,  August  3,  1775. 

In  spite  of  all  my  modesty,  I  cannot  help  thinking  I  have  a  little 
something  of  the  prophet  about  me.  At  least,  we  have  not  conquered 
America  yet.  I  did  not  send  you  immediate  word  of  our  victory  at 
Boston,  because  the  success  not  only  seemed  very  equivocal,  but 
because  the  conquerors  lost  three  to  one  more  than  the  vanquished. 
The  last  do  not  pique  themselves  upon  modern  good  breeding,  but 
level  only  at  the  officers,  of  whom  they  have  slain  a  vast  number. 
We  are  a  little  disappointed,  indeed,  at  their  fighting  at  all,  which 
was  not  in  our  calculation.  We  knew  we  could  conquer  Amer- 
ica in  Germany,  and  I  doubt  had  better  have  gone  thither  now  for 
that  purpose,  as  it  does  not  appear  hitherto  to  be  quite  so  fea- 
sible in  America  itself.  However,  we  are  determined  to  know  the 
worst,  and  are  sending  away  all  the  men  and  ammunition  we  can 
muster.  The  Congress,  not  asleep,  neither,  have  appointed  a  gen- 
eralissimo, Washington,  allowed  a  very  able  officer,  who  distinguished 
himself  in  the  last  war.  Well,  we  had  better  have  gone  on  robbing 
the  Indies  !  it  was  a  more  lucrative  trade. 


WALPOLE'S   RESIDENCE   AT   STRAWBERRY   HILL. 

I  SHALL  now  be  expecting  your  nephew  soon,  and,  I  trust,  with  a 
perfectly  good  account  of  you.  The  next  time  he  visits  you,  I  may 
be  able  to  send  you  a  description  of  my  Galleria.  I  have  long  been 
preparing  it ;  and  it  is  almost  finished,  with  some  prints,  which,  how- 
ever, I  doubt,  will  convey  no  very  adequate  idea  of  it.  In  the  first 
place,  they  are  but  moderately  executed :  I  could  not  afford  to  pay 
our  principal  engravers,  whose  prices  are  equal  to,  nay,  far  above, 


l8g{  HAND-BOOK   OF  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

those  of  former  capital  painters.  In  the  next,  as  there  is  a  solemnity 
in  the  house,  of  which  the  cuts  will  give  you  an  idea,  they  cannot  add 
the  gay  variety  of  the  scene  without,  which  is  very  different  from  every 
side,  and  almost  from  every  chamber,  and  makes  a  most  agreeable 
contrast,  the  house  being  placed  almost  in  an  elbow  of  the  Thames, 
which  surrounds  half,  and  consequently  beautifies  three  of  the  as- 
pects. Then  my  little  hill  —  and  diminutive  enough  it  is  —  gazes  up 
to  royal  Richmond ;  and  Twickenham  on  the  left,  and  Kingstonwick 
on  the  right,  are  seen  across  bends  of  the  river,  which  on  each  hand 
appears  like  a  Lilliputian  seaport.  Swans,  cows,  sheep,  coaches, 
post-chaises,  carts,  horsemen,  and  foot-passengers  are  continually  in 
view.  The  fourth  scene  is  a  large  common-field,  a  constant  prospect 
of  harvest  and  its  stages,  traversed  under  my  windows  by  the  great 
road  to  Hampton  Court ;  in  short,  an  animated  view  of  the  country. 
These  moving  pictures  compensate  the  conventual  gloom  of  the  in- 
side, which,  however,  when  the  sun  shines,  is  gorgeous,  as  he  appears 
all  crimson,  and  gold,  and  azure  through  the  painted  glass.  Now,  to 
be  quite  fair,  you  must  turn  the  perspective,  and  look  at  this  vision 
through  the  diminishing  end  of  the  telescope  ;  for  nothing  is  so 
small  as  the  whole,  and  even  Mount  Richmond  would  not  reach  up 
to  Fiesole's  shoe-buckle.  If  your  nephew  is  still  with  you,  he  will 
confirm  the  truth  of  all  the  pomp,  and  all  the  humility,  of  my  descrip- 
tion. I  grieve  that  you  would  never  come  and  cast  an  eye  on  it  ! 
But  are  even  our  visions  pure  from  alloy  ?  Does  not  some  drawback 
always  hang  over  them  ?  and,  being  visions,  how  rapidly  must  not 
they  fleet  away  !  Yes,  yes  ;  our  smiles  and  our  tears  are  almost  as 
transient  as  the  lustre  of  the  morning  and  the  shadows  of  the  evening, 
and  almost  as  frequently  interchanged.  Our  passions  form  airy  bal- 
loons—  we  know  not  how  to  direct  them  ;  and  the  very  inflammable 
matter  that  transports  them  often  makes  the  bubble  burst.     Adieu  ! 


DR.   JOHNSON'S   BIOGRAPHERS. 

I  HAVE  very  lately  been  lent  a  volume  of  poems,  composed  and 
printed  at  Florence,  in  which  another  of  our  ex-heroines,  Mrs.  Piozzi, 
has  a  considerable  share  ;  her  associates,  three  of  the  English  bards 
who  assisted  in  the  little  garland  which  Ramsay  the  painter  sent  me. 
The  present  is  a  plump  octavo  ;  and,  if  you  have  not  sent  me  a  copy 
by  your  nephew,  I  should  be  glad  if  you  could  get  one  for  me  —  not 
for  the  merit  of  the  verses,  which  are  moderate  enough,  and  faint 
imitations  of  our  good  poets,  but  for  a  short,  and  sensible,  and  gen- 


WILLIAM   COLLINS.  1 89 

teel  preface  by  La  Piozzi,  from  whom  I  have  just  seen  a  very  clever 
letter  to  Mrs.  Montagu,  to  disavow  a  jackanapes  who  has  lately  made 
a  noise  here,  one  Boswell,  by  anecdotes  of  Dr.  Johnson.  In  a  day 
or  two  we  expect  another  collection  by  the  same  signora. 

Two  days  ago  appeared  Madame  Piozzi's  Anecdotes  of  Dr.  John- 
son. I  am  lamentably  disappointed  —  in  her,  I  mean,  not  in  him. 
I  had  conceived  a  favorable  opinion  of  her  capacity.  But  this  new 
book  is  wretched  ;  a  high-varnished  preface  to  a  heap  of  rubbish,  in 
a  very  vulgar  style,  and  too  void  of  method  even  for  such  a  farrago. 
Her  panegyric  is  loud  in  praise  of  her  hero  ;  and  almost  every  fact 
she  relates  disgraces  him.  She  allows  and  proves  he  was  arrogant, 
yet  affirms  he  was  not  proud  ;  as  if  arrogance  were  not  the  flower  of 
pride.  A  man  may  be  proud,  and  may  conceal  it ;  if  he  is  arrogant, 
he  declares  he  is  proud.  She,  and  all  Johnson's  disciples,  seem  to 
have  taken  his  brutal  contradictions  for  bon-tnots.  Some  of  his  own 
works  show  that  he  had,  at  times,  strong,  excellent  sense,  and  that 
he  had  the  virtue  of  charity  to  a  high  degree,  is  indubitable  ;  but  his 
friends  (of  whom  he  made  woful  choice)  have  taken  care  to  let  the 
world  know  that  in  behavior  he  was  an  ill-natured  bear,  and  in  opin- 
ions as  senseless  a  bigot  as  an  old  washerwoman  —  a  brave  compo- 
sition for  a  philosopher  !  Let  me  turn  from  such  a  Hottentot  to  his 
reverse  —  \.o  youj  to  you,  the  mild,  benevolent,  beneficent  friend  of 
mankind,  and  the  true  contented  philosopher  in  every  stage.  Your 
last  resigned  letter  is  an  antidote  to  all  Johnson's  coarse,  meditated, 
offensive  apophthegms. 


WILLIAM   COLLINS. 

William  Collins  was  born  at  Chichester,  in  1721,  was  educated  at  Winchester  and  at  Ox- 
ford, and  afterwards  went  to  London  to  engage  in  literary  pursuits.  He  knew  Goldsmith, 
Thomson,  and  Johnson  intimately,  and  was  highly  esteemed  as  a  scholar  ;  but  his  poetry 
was  not  popular,  and  was  not  even  appreciated  by  his  friends.  He  suffered  all  the  miseries 
of  poverty,  but  felt  still  more  keenly  the  pangs  of  unmerited  neglect.  After  some  years  he 
received  a  legacy  of  two  thousand  pounds  from  a  maternal  uncle ;  but  the  relief  came  too 
late  ;  his  spirits  were  broken,  and  his  health  impaired  ;  he  sank  into  a  melancholy  imbecil- 
ity bordering  on  lunacy,  and  died  in  his  thirty-ninth  year. 

The  Odes  of  Collins,  though  never  deeply  touching  human  sympathies,  nor  astonishing 
us  by  strokes  of  genius,  are  yet  so  elevated  in  thought,  so  rich  in  imagery,  so  graceful  in 
fancy,  and  so  musical  in  rhythm,  that  they  contend  with  those  of  Gray  for  the  chief  place 
among  the  minor  poems  of  the  language. 


I90  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 


/ 


?^,^tt'E  PASSIONS,   AN   ODE  E^  '^  / 


■\J(ij^il^MAM^       ■  When 'Music,  h4avenly  maid,  v#as  young, 

*  jl        •    <^r^^^/ While  yet  in  early  Greece  she  sung, 

^^f;;^^,vv^/vVC'<^y      The  Passions  oft,  to  hear  her^shell, 
}       .    A^t^^^r^vu*^ '^'^^  Thronged  around  her  magic  cell ; 
f^>     .  V  >     '  ,  il/6t^<^^^^^^"^'  trembling,  raging,  fainting, 
\J^jd^^  ■  ^  -^      /        Possessed  beyond  the  Muse's  painting  ; 

)P     ^^      I   g  Q  C^'^       By  turns  they  felt  the  glowing  mind 
/  O^^^'^/i^  ■    rP'P  0       Disturbed,  delighted,  raised,  refined  ; 


a/.v€^^ 


Till  once,  'tis  said,  when  all  were  fired, 
Filled  with  fury,  rapt,  inspired. 
From  the  supporting  myrtles  round, 
They  snatched  her  instruments  of  sound ; 
And  as  they  oft  had  heard  apart 
Sweet  lessons  of  her  forceful  art. 
Each  —  for  madness  ruled  the  hour  — 
Would  prove  his  own  expressive  power. 

First  Fear  his  hand,  its  skill  to  try. 
Amid  the  chords  bewildered  laid. 
And  back  recoiled,  he  knew  not  why. 
Even  at  the  sound  himself  had  made. 

Next  Anger  rushed,  his  eyes  on  fire 
In  lightnings  owned  his  secret  stings  ; 
In  one  rude  clash  he  struck  the  lyre. 
And  swept  with  hurried  hand  the  strings. 

With  woful  measures  wan  Despair, 
Low,  sullen  sounds  his  grief  beguiled ; 
A  solemn,  strange,  and  mingled  air ; 
'T was  sad  by  fits,  by  starts  'twas  wild. 


But  thou,  O  Hope  !  with  eyes  so  fair. 
What  was  thy  delighted  measure  ? 
Still  it  whispered  promised  pleasure, 
And  bade  the  lovely  scenes  at  distance  hail ! 
Still  would  her  touch  the  strain  prolong ; 
And  from  the  rocks,  the  woods,  the  vale, 


WILLIAM   COLLINS.  IQI 

She  called  on  Echo  still  through  all  the  song ; 
And  where  her  sweetest  theme  she  chose, 
A  soft  responsive  voice  was  heard  at  every  close  ; 
And  Hope,  enchanted,  smiled,  and  waved  her  golden  hair: 

And  longer  had  she  sung,  but  with  a  frown 

Revenge  impatient  rose  ; 
He  threw  his  blood-stained  sword  in  thunder  down. 

And,  with  a  withering  look. 

The  war-denouncing  trumpet  took. 

And  blew  a  blast  so  loud  and  dread. 
Were  ne'er  prophetic  sounds  so  full  of  woe  ; 

And  ever  and  anon  he  beat 

The  doubling  drum  with  furious  heat ; 
And  though  sometimes,  each  dreary  pause  between, 

Dejected  Pity  at  his  side 

Her  soul-subduing  voice  applied. 
Yet  still  he  kept  his  wild,  unaltered  mien. 
While  each  strained  ball  of  sight  seemed  bursting  from  his  head. 

Thy  numbers,  Jealousy,  to  nought  were  fixed : 

Sad  proof  of  thy  distressful  state  ; 
Of  differing  themes  the  veering  song  was  mixed, 
And  now  it  courted  Love,  now,  raving,  called  on  Hate. 

With  eyes  upraised,  as  one  inspired. 
Pale  Melancholy  sat  retired  ; 
And  from  her  wild,  sequestered  seat. 
In  notes  by  distance  made  more  sweet, 
'Poured  through  the  mellow  horn  her  pensive  soul ; 
And  dashing  soft  from  rocks  around,        /         n 
Bubbling  runnels  joined  the  sound  ;     y.^'^^^'TTT^ 
Through  glades  and  glooms  the  mingled  measure  stole  ; 
Or  o'er  some  haunted  stream  with  fond  delay, 
Round  a  holy  calm  diffusing, 
Love  of  peace  and  lonely  musing, 
In  hollow  murmurs  died  away. 

But  O,  how  altered  was  its  sprightlier  tone. 
When  Cheerfulness,  a  nymph  of  healthiest  hue, 
Her  bow  across  her  shoulder  flung, 


192  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

i^    Her  buskins  gemmed  with  morning  dew,  ,  ^ 


j?|^'  Satyrs  and  sylvan  boys  we're  seen 

.       i-AAJL^<U<^  Peeping  from  forth  their  alleys  green  ;  '  f^  ^^Jj  itMji 

-<-  IT       //   /IN^'^  Sport  leaped  up,  and  seized  his  beechen  speafr  Jfl/''''^''^ 

^'t.iptAdj £Jf^^rT^j 


'^iM^  Last  came  Joy's  ecstatic  trial ;  [/i/  ■      />  ;  mJ?^  • 

u        ^   He,  with  viny  crown  advancing,  •  /  jLAA-V'- 

^'UjCr^^'   First  to  the  lively  pipe  his  hand  addressed  ; 
/-^'rio.  But  soon  he  saw  the  brisk,  awakening  viol, 
/    ^  \  Whose  sweet,  entrancing  voice  he  loved  the  best. 

(M^  yj^  They  would  have  thought,  who  heard  the  strain, 

ff^^^      •    in^du^     They  saw,  in  Tempe's  vale,  her  native  maids, 

'     ,;      //'    h-v/~     Amidst  the  festal-sounding  shades, 
vtjp  iv^' '^t^'^Y  /       /,^-  To  some  unwearied  minstrel  dancing  ; 
^Jl^l^Lcu^l^^'^J^^^  While,  as  his  flying  fingers  kissed  the  strings, 
^. .   ^    /''^/  J    Love  framed  with  Mirth  a  gay,  fantastic  round; 
•u  >"^        Loose  were  her  tresses  seen,  her  zone  unbound  ; 
//v^l^  J  An(j  he^  amidst  his  frolic  play, 

^-tuJi-^^As  if  he  would  the  charming  air  repay, 
,  Shook  thousand  odors  from  his  dewy  wings. 

^^/lcyiria<Uyt'  '^  O  Music  !  sphere-descended  maid, 


/i. 


t/r..>.^i/--  _     -^  f'riend  of  Pleasure,  Wisdom's  aid. 

Why,  goddess,  why,  to  us  denied, 
Lay'st  thou  thy  ancient  lyre  aside 
As  in  that  loved  Athenian  bower, 

j/(  You  learned  an  all-commanding  power, 

^;  Thy  mimic  soul,  O  nymph  endeared, 


^      //^  i    -f-  f  nena  ot  Pleasure,  Wisaom's  aid, 
f     l\Mri^^^'^  C^^^r    "  '  Why,  goddess,  why,  to  us  denied, 
,    ,'     J-       \y  fj  /.-'■///'     OLay'st  thou  thy  ancient  lyre  aside  ? 


r.O  Js'.-.^miit^-  .     '  "Jr.      Can  well  recall  what  then  it  heard. 
•W'>r^^Ix'^"^^- '^C^^  Where  is  thy  native  simple  heart, 

'i  'UM/h^^''  *   '> '"^''  ■   -'  Devote  to  virtue,  fancy,  art? 
f    1^        I  Arise,  as  in  that  elder  time, 

^/(^  l^  ,Warm,  energetic,  chaste,  sublime ! 

/?'/  ,v</^'  ' '    -  '-*;  /  '•  7/ '  .^^Thy  wonders  in  that  godlike  age 
//>  Juj  O'^     ^"^  thy^ecording  sister'^)  page  ; 

*'        ^^^Jlih^^^^^  ,'Tissaid,  — and  I  behevethetale,— 

^  Al        ^     -     :^^^y  humblest  reed  could  more  prevail, 


J^ 


M' 


j:.'  iJ JIj^ 


IjMf.--  ^y-/'     ''        '  WILLIAM  COLLINS,    t'  .  I9J  . 

''■^■'^'    I       fffK  i  Had  more  of  strength,  diviner  rage,    -^i^<yi.lpy\y' ^^^:^^'^    "^ 

j^  (^y\Al<  ^'W'   Than  all  which  charms  this  laggard  ^g^ijlo^yt^^  ^^Aj^Oi 
Vl^^'  i-     "' '^'^^'^Even  all  at  once  together  found,  L^iX^^'Tin^^y*^'^ 

^A\  /f-  n  i  >/t^  f  ec^^^^'s  mingled  world  of  sound.  cj  rr^i.^>vAy^ ^  tyCfi- 

^/   '  V  ..//  i<^-'  -  ^'  ^'^  ^"''  ''^'''  endeavors  cease  ;         ^^.<AXU^Cnn^xyVl^<iA^t/  , 
/lii^^^        §        Revive  the  just  designs  of  Greece;    jj.^  (^  X^'^H^  " 
/  Return  in  all  thy  simple  state ;  -^  .     ^     AAdLM/^ 

Confirm  the  tales  her  son^  relate.     J^  ♦^^^  '^  "^  ^^  / 

ODE  TO  EVENING.        ^  '  ,.     -•      ^ 

..  J    ■  /I 

j^/,-  .^       '      If  aught  of  oaten  stop,  or  pastoral  song, 
/tj^ ,  May  hope,  chaste  Eve,  to  soothe  thy  modest  ear, 

^^  Like  thy  own  solemn  springs, 

Thy  springs,  and  dying  gales  ; 

O  nymph  reserved,  while  now  the  bright-haired  sun 
Sits  in  yon  western  tent,  whose  cloudy  skirts,  / 

With''Wede  ethereal  wove,    ''  - --  /  Uii^i,/^-^^-^'^  '         _j 

O'erhang  his  wavy  bed : 

Now  air  is  hushed,  "^ave  where  the  weak-eyed  bat, 
With  short,  shrill  shriek,  flits  by  on  leathern  wing, 

Or  where  the  beetle  winds 

His  small  but  sullen  horn, 

As  oft  he  rises,  'midst  the  twilight  path, 
Against  the  pilgrim,  borne  in  heedless  hum : 

Now  teach  me,  maid  composed. 

To  breathe  some  softened  strain, 

Whose  numbers,  stealing  through  thy  darkening  vale, 
May  not  unseemly  with  its  stillness  suit. 

As,  musing  slow,  I  hail 

Thy  gonial,  loved  return  ! 

For  when  thy  folding-star,  arising,  shows 
His  paly  circlet,  at  his  warning  lamp 

The  fragrant  hours,  and  elves  y> 

Who  slept  in  buds  the  day, 
13 


194  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

And  many  a  nymph  who  wreathes  her  brows  with  sedge, 
And  sheds  the  freshening  dew,  and,  lovelier  still, 

The  pensive  pleasures  sweet 

Prepare  thy  shadowy  car. 

Then  lead,  calm  votaress,  where  some  sheety  lake 
Cheers  the  lone  heath,  or  some  time-hallowed  pile, 

Or  upland  fallows  gray, 

Reflect  its  last  cool  gleam. 

But  when  chill  blustering  winds,  or  driving  rain, 
Forbid  my  willing  feet,  be  mine  the  hut 

That  from  the  mountain's  side 

Views  wilds  and  swelling  floods. 

And  hamlets  brown,  and  dim-discovered  spires, 
And  hears  their  simple  bell,  and  marks  o'er  all 

Thy  dewy  fingers  draw 

The  gradual  dusky  veil. 

While  Spring  shall  pour  his  showers,  as  oft  he  wont. 
And  bathe  thy  breathing  tresses,  meekest  Eve  ; 

While  Summer  loves  to  sport 

Beneath  thy  lingering  light ; 

While  sallow  Autumn  fills  thy  lap  with  leaves, 
Or  Winter,  yelling  through  the  troublous  air, 

Afli-ights  thy  shrinking  train. 

And  rudely  rends  thy  robes,  — 

So  long,  sure  found  beneath  the  sylvan  shed. 

Shall  Fancy,  Friendship,  Science,  rose-lipped  Health, 

Thy  gentlest  influence  own. 

And  hymn  thy  favorite  name. 


ODE. 

How  sleep  the  brave  who  sink  to  rest, 
By  all  their  country's  wishes  blest ! 
When  Spring,  with  dewy  fingers  cold. 
Returns  to  deck  their  hallowed  mould, 


WILLIAM   ROBERTSON.  195 

She  there  shall  dress  a  sweeter  sod 
Than  Fancy's  feet  have  ever  trod. 

By  fairy  hands  their  knell  is  rung, 
By  forms  unseen  their  dirge  is  sung ; 
There  Honor  comes,  a  pilgrim  gray. 
To  bless  the  turf  that  wraps  their  clay, 
And  Freedom  shall  a  while  repair. 
To  dwell,  a  weeping  hermit,  there  ! 


WILLIAM    ROBERTSON. 

William  Robertson,  the  son  of  a  Scotch  clergyman,  was  bom  near  Edinburgh  in  1721,  and 
at  the  age  of  twenty-two  became  minister  of  a  church.  In  1759  he  published  his  first  work. 
History  of  Scotland  under  Queen  Mary  and  James  VI.,  which  was  immediately  successful. 
Ten  years  later  he  gave  to  the  world  the  work  by  which  he  is  best  known  to  modem  readers, 
the  History  of  Charles  V.  This  history,  with  additions  by  Prescott,  is  still  a  most  valuable 
work,  and  one  which  every  student  must  read,  since  the  author  has  had  no  competitor  in  the 
same  field;  although  Motley,  in  his  History  of  the  Netherlands,  presents  many  of  the  same 
events  with  far  greater  effect  from  a  different  point  of  view.  Robertson  wrote  also  a  History 
of  America. 

The  style  of  Robertson  is  dignified  and  correct,  but  never  dramatic,  and  with  little 
imaginative  coloring.  His  works  have  a  certain  level  excellence  that  produces  a  pleasant 
impression,  but  there  are  few,  if  any,  scenes  that  will  bear  cutting  out  from  the  general  nar- 
rative.   On  this  account  the  specimens  here  given  hardly  do  him  justice.  •  He  died  in  1793. 

[From  the  History  of  Charles  V.] 

When  Charles  and  Francis  entered  the  lists  as  candidates  for  the 
imperial  dignity,  they  conducted  their  rivalship  with  many  profes- 
sions of  regard  for  each  other,  and  with  repeated  declarations  that 
they  would  not  suffer  any  tincture  of  enmity  to  mingle  itself  with 
honorable  emulation.  "We  both  court  the  same  mistress,"  said 
Francis,  with  his  usual  vivacity  ;  "  each  ought  to  urge  his  suit  with 
all  the  address  of  which  he  is  master ;  the  most  fortunate  will  pre- 
vail, and  the  other  must  rest  contented."  But  though  two  young 
and  high-spirited  princes,  and  each  of  them  animated  with  the  hope 
of  success,  might  be  capable  of  forming  such  a  generous  resolution, 
it  was  soon  found  that  they  promised  upon  a  moderation  too  refined 
and  disinterested  for  human  nature.  The  preference  given  to 
Charles  in  the  sight  of  all  Europe  mortified  Francis  extremely,  and 
inspired  him  with  all  the  passions  natural  to  disappointed  ambition. 
To  this  were  owing  the  personal  jealousy  and  rivalship  which  sub- 


196  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

sisted  between  the  two  monarchs  during  their  whole  reign  ;  and  the 
rancor  of  these,  augmented  by  a  real  opposition  of  interest,  which 
gave  rise  to  many  unavoidable  causes  of  discord,  involved  them  in 
almost  perpetual  hostilities. 

The  pope  had  equal  reason  to  dread  the  two  rivals,  and  saw  that 
he  who  prevailed  would  become  absolute  master  in  Italy.  If  it  had 
been  in  his  power  to  engage  them  in  hostihties,  without  rendering 
Lombardy  the  theatre  of  war,  nothing  would  have  been  more  agree- 
able to  him  than  to  see  them  waste  each  other's  strength  in  endless 
quarrels.  But  this  was  impossible.  Leo  foresaw  that,  on  the  first 
rupture  between  the  two  monarchs,  the  armies  of  France  and  Spain 
would  take  the  field  in  the  Milanese  ;  and  while  the  scene  of  their 
operations  was  so  near,  and  the  subject  for  which  they  contended 
so  interesting  to  him,  he  could  not  long  remain  neuter.  He  was 
obliged,  therefore,  to  adapt  his  plan  of  conduct  to  his  political  situa- 
tion. He  courted  and  soothed  the  Emperor  and  the  King  of  France 
with  equal  industry  and  address.  Though  warmly  solicited  by  each 
of  them  to  espouse  his  cause,  he  assumed  all  the  appearances  of  entire 
impartiality,  and  attempted  to  conceal  his  real  sentiments  under  that 
profound  dissimulation  which  seems  to  have  been  affected  by  most 
of  the  Itahan  politicians  in  that  age. 

But  the  chief  attention  both  of  Charles  and  of  Francis  was 
employed  in  order  to  gain  the  King  of  England,  from  whom  each  of 
them  expected  assistance  more  effectual,  and  afforded  with  less 
pohtical  caution.  Henry  VIII.  had  ascended  the  throne  of  that 
kingdom  in  the  year  1509,  with  such  circumstances  of  advantage  as 
promised  a  reign  of  distinguished  felicity  and  splendor.  The  union 
in  his  person  of  the  two  contending  titles  of  York  and  Lancaster,  the 
alacrity  and  emulation  with  which  both  factions  obeyed  his  com- 
mands, not  only  enabled  him  to  exert  a  degree  of  vigor  and  author- 
ity in  his  domestic  government  which  none  of  his  predecessors 
could  have  safely  assumed,  but  permitted  him  to  take  a  share  in  the 
affairs  of  the  continent,  from  which  the  attention  of  the  English  had 
long  been  diverted  by  their  unhappy  intestine  divisions.  The  great 
sums  of  money  which  his  father  had  amassed  rendered  him  the  most 
wealthy  prince  in  Europe.  The  peace  which  had  subsisted  under 
the  cautious  administration  of  that  monarch  had  been  of  sufficient 
length  to  recruit  the  population  of  the  kingdom  after  the  desolation 
of  the  civil  wars,  but  not  so  long  as  to  enervate  its  spirit  j  and  the 


WILLIAM    ROBERTSON.  >      197 

English,  ashamed  of  having  rendered  their  own  country  so  long  a 
scene  of  discord  and  bloodshed,  were  eager  to  display  their  valor  in 
some  foreign  war,  and  to  revive  the  memory  of  the  victories  gained 
on  the  continent  by  their  ancestors.  Henry's  own  temper  perfectly 
suited  the  state  of  his  kingdom,  and  the  disposition  of  his  subjects. 
Ambitious,  active,  enterprising,  and  accomplished  in  all  the  martial 
exercises  which  in  that  age  formed  a  chief  part  in  the  education  of 
persons  of  noble  birth,  and  inspired  them  with  an  early  love  of  war, 
he  longed  to  engage  in  action,  and  to  signalize  the  beginning  of  his 
reign  by  some  remarkable  exploit. 

[Meeting  of  Henry  VIII.  and  Francis  I.] 

His  interview  with  that  prince  was  in  an  open  plain  between 
Guisnes  and  Ardres,  where  the  two  kings  and  their  attendants  dis- 
played their  magnificence  with  such  emulation,  and  profuse  expense, 
as  procured  it  the  name  of  the  Field  of  the  Cloth  of  Gold.  Feats 
of  chivalry,  parties  of  gallantry,  together  with  such  exercises  and 
pastimes  as  were  in  that  age  reckoned  manly  or  elegant,  rather  than 
serious  business,  occupied  both  courts  during  eighteen  days  that 
they  continued  together.'  Whatever  impression  the  engaging  man- 
ners of  Francis,  or  the  liberal  and  unsuspicious  confidence  with 
which  he  treated  Henry,  made  on  the  mind  of  that  monarch,  was 
soon  effaced  by  Wolsey's  artifices,  or  by  an  interview  he  had  with 
the  Emperor  at  Gravelines,  which  was  conducted  with  less  pomp 
than  that  near  Guisnes,  but  with  greater  attention  to  what  might  be 
of  political  utility. 

1  The  French  and  English  historians  describe  the  pomp  of  this  interview,  and  the  various 
spectacles,  with  great  minuteness.  One  circumstance  mentioned  by  the  Mareschal  de 
Fleuranges,  who  was  present,  and  which  must  appear  singular  in  the  present  age,  is  com- 
monly omitted.  "After  the  tournament,"  says  he,  "the  French  and  English  wrestlers 
made  their  appearance,  and  wrestled  in  presence  of  the  kings  and  the  ladies ;  and  as  there  were 
many  stout  wrestlers  there,  it  afforded  excellent  pastime ;  but  as  the  King  of  France  had 
neglected  to  bring  any  wrestlers  out  of  Bretagne,  the  English  gained  the  prize.  After  this, 
the  Kings  of  France  and  England  retired  to  a  tent,  where  they  drank  together,  and  the  Kmg 
of  England,  seizing  the  King  of  France  by  the  collar,  said.  '  My  brother,  I  must  wrestle  with 
you,'  and  endeavored  once  or  twice  to  trip  up  his  heels ;  but  the  King  of  France,  who  is  a 
dexterous  wrestler,  twisted  him  round,  and  threw  him  on  the  earth  with  prodigious  violence. 
The  King  of  England  wanted  to  renew  the  combat,  but  was  prevented. " 


198  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 

Oliver  Goldsmith  was  born  in  Ireland  in  1728,  the  son  of  a  clergyman  who  is  supposed 
to  have  been  the  original  of  the  vicar  of  Wakefield,  and  of  the  paster  depicted  in  The 
Deserted  Village.  The  poet  was  educated  at  Dublin,  and  then  commenced  a  wandering 
career.  Love  of  adventure,  of  play,  of  dress,  the  vanity  of  social  distinction,  habitual  im- 
providence and  unthrift,  were  enough  to  have  ruined  the  worldly  prospects  of  any  one,  even 
if  he  had  had  twice  Goldsmith's  great  capacity  for  literary  work.  Some  episodes  in  his 
early  life  seem  like  pleasing  fictions  ;  for  one  can  hardly  imagine  a  cultivated  man  making 
his  way  half  over  Europe,  starting  with  only  his  flute,  a  guinea,  and  one  shirt.  But  while 
his  simple  melodies  and  easy  manners  gained  him  friends,  with  food  and  shelter,  among 
peasants,  he  studied  at  seats  of  learning,  and  everywhere  used  those  powers  of  observation 
of  which  we  have  the  abundant  results  in  his  poems. 

He  commenced  his  literary  life,  in  the  usual  way,  as  a  bookseller's  hack,  and,  with  incred- 
ible industry  and  tact,  turned  every  species  of  writing  to  account.  His  talent  for  acquisi- 
tion was  only  exceeded  by  his  fatal  facility  in  expense.  The  club  of  which  he  was  a  member 
is  one  of  the  most  memorable  in  literary  annals.  Some  glimpses  of  it  appear  in  the  poem 
Retaliation.  Besides  the  works  before  alluded  to,  he  wrote  two  highly  successful  comedies. 
The  Good-Natured  Man  and  She  Stoops  to  Conquer ;  also,  The  Traveller,  an  exquisitely- 
finished  poem  ;  The  Citizen  of  the  World,  a  series  of  Letters  purporting  to  have  been  writ- 
ten by  a  Chinese  tourist  in  England,  full  of  good-humored  satire  ;  a  History  of  England, 
and  an  abridgment  of  Roman  History.  He  had  begun,  also,  to  write  a  History  of  Ani- 
mated Nature,  which  he  did  not  live  to  complete.  All  these  were  exclusive  of  an  infinity 
of  task-work  in  reviews,  much  of  it  no  longer  recognizable.     He  died  in  1774. 

Whatever  mist  of  oblivion  may  obscure  the  other  members  of  that  brilliant  club.  Gold- 
smith's name  and  works  are  immortal.  Fertile  invention,  a  simple  and  beautiful  style, 
natural  sentiments,  an  instinctive  symmetry  in  plan,  and  the  rejection  of  every  weak  line  of 
verse,  and  of  every  useless  sentence  in  prose,  combine  to  give  his  works  a  perpetual  charm. 

The  Life  of  Goldsmith  has  been  written  by  John  Forster,  of  London,  and  by  Washington 
Irving.  The  student  will  find  also  a  very  admirable  summary  in  Mr.  Epes  Sargent's  edition 
of  Goldsmith's  poems.  '^Sl"^ 


0A 


THE   DESERTED   VILLAGE. 


SwEET  Auburn,  loveliest  village  of  the  plain,  ^tl/ i^ } /ir/^^ 

Where  health  and  plenty  cheered  the  laboring  swain,  J^     '-^  ^   ■   ' 
Where  smiling  spring  its  earliest  visit  paid,  ^^^  if^t, 

And  parting  summer's  lingering  blooms  delayed  :      Ai/vt^LltT. 
Dear,  lovely  bowers  of  innocence  and  ease,  — ~:  '  a    '^ 

Seats  of  my  youth,  when  every  sport  could  please,    <%/*"ti^  it-O^^vyi 
How  often  have  I  loitered  o'er  thy  green,  '^'^"'^-'^''i/yOU'  ^'^  ^ 

Where  humble  happiness  endeared  each  scene  !  fi/y^j/COi^i^ 

How  often  have  I  paused  on  every  charm,  —  -^fet/  -^-^  2^ 

The  sheltered  cot,  the  cultivated  farm,  /    '    j^L 

The  never-failing  brook,  the  busy  mill,  -"lA^  y^/ 

The  decent  church  that  topped  the  neighboring  hill,  ^iC'O'fyUiC^C'' 
The  hawthorn  bush,  with  seats  beneath  the  shade,        'f/'JTfr^ 
For  talking  age  and  whispering  lovers  made  !  ■.  .Jlf^JjU 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  199 


Sweet-smiling  village,  loveliest  of  the  lawn, 
Thy  sports  are  fled,  and  all  thy  charms  withdrawn  . 
Amidst  thy  bowers  the  tyrant's  hand  is  seen, 
And  desolation  saddens  all  thy  green, 
One  only  master  grasps  the  whole  domain. 
And  half  a  tillage  stints  thy  smiling  plain. 
No  more  thy  glassy  brook  reflects  the  day, 
But,  choked  with  sedges,  works  its  weedy  way ; 
Along  thy  glades,  a  solitary  ^uest. 
The  hollow-sounding  bitterri  guards  its  nest ; 
Amidst  thy  desert-walks  the  lajJwing  flies, 
And  tires  their  echoes  with  unvaried  cries. 
Sunk  are  thy  bowers  in  shapeless  ruin  all, 
And  the  long  grass  o'ertops  the  mouldering  wall. 
And,  trembling,  shrinking  from  the  spoiler's  hand, 
Far,  far  away  thy  children  leave  the  land. 

Ill  fares  the  land,  to  hastening  ills  a  prey, 
,  J    {    Where  wealth  accumulates,  and  men  decay. 
.  \^.  J  (princes  and  lords  may  flourish  or  may  fade  ; 
3^^^    I    A  breath  can  make  them,  as  a  breath  has  made  ;) 
"'i  ~       ^But  a  bold  peasantry,  their  country's  pride, 
^  When  once  destroyed,  can  never  be  supplied. 

A  time  there  was,  ere  England's  griefs  began, 
When  every  rood  of  ground  maintained  its  man. 
For  him  light  labor  spread  her  wholesome  store. 
Just  gave  what  life  required,  but  gave  no  more  ; 
His  best  companions,  innocence  and  health,  \ 
And  his  best  riches,  ignorance  of  wealth.     J 

But  times  are  altered.     Trade's  unfeeling  train 
Usurp  the  land,  and  dispossess  the  swain. 
Along  the  lawn  where  scattered  hamlets  rose, 
Unwieldy  wealth  and  cumbrous  pomp  repose. 
And  every  want  to  luxury  allied. 
And  every  pang  that  folly  pays  to  pride. 
Those  gentle  hours  that  plenty  bade  to  bloom, 
Those  calm  desires  that  asked  but  little  room, 
Those  healthful  sports  that  graced  th^  peaceful  scene, 
Lived  in  each  look,  and  brightened  all  the  green,  — 
These,  far  departing,  seek  a  kinder  shore, 
And  rural  mirth  and  manners  are  no  more. 


200  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

Sweet  Auburn,  parent  of  the  blissful  hour, 
Thy  glades  forlorn  confess  the  tyrant's  power. 
Here,  as  I  take  my  solitary  rounds 
Amidst  thy  tangling  walks  and  ruined  grounds, 
And,  many  a  year  elapsed,  return  to  view 
Where  once  the  cottage  stood,  the  hawthorn  grew, 
Remembrance  wakes,  with  all  her  busy  train, 
Swells  at  my  breast,  and  turns  the  past  to  pain. 

In  all  my  wanderings  round  this  world  of  care. 
In  all  my  griefs,  —  and  God  has  given  my  share,  — 
I  still  had  hopes  my  latest  hours  to  crown. 
Amidst  these  humble  bowers  to  lay  me  down ; 
To  husband  out  life's  taper  at  the  close. 
And  keep  the  flame  from  wasting  by  repose  ; 
I  still  had  hopes  —  for  pride  attends  us  still  — 
Amidst  the  swains  to  show  my  book-learned  skill, 
Around  my  fire  an  evening  group  to  draw. 
And  tell  of  all  I  felt,  and  all  I  saw  ; 
And  as  a  hare,  whom  hounds  and  horns  pursue. 
Pants  to  the  place  from  whence  at  first  she  flew, 
I  still  had  hopes,  my  long  vexations  passed, 
Here  to  return,  and  die  at  home  at  last. 

Sweet  was  the  sound,  when  oft,  at  evening's  close, 
Up  yonder  hill  the  village  murmur  rose. 
.    There,  as  I  passed  with  careless  steps  and  slow, 
The  mingling  notes  came  softened  from  below  ; 
The  swain  responsive  as  the  milk-maid  sung. 
The  sober  herd  that  lowed  to  meet  their  young. 
The  noisy  geese  that  gabbled  o'er  the  pool. 
The  playful  children  just  let  loose  from  school. 
The  watch-dog's  voice  that  bayed  the  whispering  wind, 
And  the  loud  laugh  that  spoke  the  vacant  mind,  — 
These  all  in  sweet  confusion  sought  the  shade. 
And  filled  each  pause  the  nightingale  had  made. 
But  now  the  sounds  of  population  fail. 
No  cheerful  murmurs  fluctuate  in  the  gale. 
No  busy  steps  the  grass-grown  footway  tread, 
For  all  the  blooming  flush  of  life  is  fled  — 
All  but  yon  widowed,  solitary  thing. 
That  feebly  bends  beside  the  plashy  spring. 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  201 

She,  wretched  matron,  —  forced  in  age,  for  bread, 

To  strip  the  brook  with  manth'ng  cresses  spread, 

To  pick  her  wintry  fagot  from  the  thorn. 

To  seek  her  nightly  shed,  and  weep  till  morn,  — 

She  only  left  of  all  the  harmless  train. 

The  sad  historian  of  the  pensive  plain. 

Near  yonder  copse,  where  once  the  garden  smiled, 
And  still  where  many  a  garden  flower  grows  wild. 
There,  where  a  few  torn  shrubs  the  place  disclose, 
The  village  preacher's  modest  mansion  rose. 
A  man  he  was  to  all  the  country  dear. 
And  passing  rich  with  forty  pounds  a  year. 
Remote  from  towns  he  ran  his  godly  race. 
Nor  e'er  had  changed,  nor  wished  to  change,  his  place  : 
Unpractised  he  to  fawn,  or  seek  for  power 
By  doctrines  fashioned  to  the  varying  hour. 
Far  other  aims  his  heart  had  learned  to  prize. 
More  skilled  to  raise  the  wretched  than  to  rise. 
His  house  was  known  to  all  the  vagrant  train  ; 
He  chid  their  wanderings,  but  relieved  their  pain  ; 
The  long-remembered  beggar  was  his  guest. 
Whose  beard,  descending,  swept  his  aged  breast  ; 
The  ruined  spendthrift,  now  no  longer  proud, 
Claimed  kindred  there,  and  had  his  claim  allowed  : 
The  broken  soldier,  kindly  bade  to  stay. 
Sat  by  his  fire,  and  talked  the  night  away. 
Wept  o'er  his  wounds,  or,  tales  of  sorrow  done. 
Shouldered  his  crutch,  and  showed  how  fields  were  won, 
Pleased  with  his  guests,  the  good  man  learned  to  glow, 
And  quite  forgot  their  vices  in  their  woe  ; 
Careless  their  merits  or  their  faults  to  scan, 
His  pity  gave  ere  charity  began.] 

Thus  to  relieve  the  wretched  was  his  pride. 
And  e'en  his  faihngs  leaned  to  virtue's  side  ; 
But,  in  his  duty  prompt,  at  every  call, 
He  watched  and  wept,  he  prayed  and  felt  for  all ; 
And,  as  a  bird  each  fond  endearment  tries 
To  tempt  its  new-fledged  offspring  to  the  skies, 
He  tried  each  art,  reproved  each  dull  delay. 
Allured  to  brighter  worlds,  and  led  the  way. 

Beside  the  bed  where  parting  life  was  laid. 


202  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE 

And  sorrow,  guilt,  and  pain  by  turns  dismayed, 
The  reverend  champion  stood.     At  his  control, 
Despair  and  anguish  fled  the  struggling  soul ; 
Comfort  came  down  the  trembling  wretch  to  raise, 
And  his  last,  faltering  accents  whispered  praise. 

At  church,  with  meek  and  unaffected  grace, 
His  looks  adorned  the  venerable  place  ; 
Truth  from  his  lips  prevailed  with  double  sway, 

\And  fools  who  came  to  scoff  remained  to  pray. 3 
The  service  past,  around  the  pious  man, 
With  steady  zeal,  each  honest  rustic  ran  ; 
Even  children  followed,  with  endearing  wile, 

/  And  plucked  his  gown,  to  share  the  good  man's  smile.j 
His  ready  smile  a  parent's  warmth  expressed  ; 
Their  welfare  pleased  him,  and  their  cares  distressed  ; 
To  them  his  heart,  his  love,  his  griefs  were  given, 
But  all  his  serious  thoughts  had  rest  in  heaven  : 
As  some  tall  cliff,  that  lifts  its  awful  form. 
Swells  from  the  vale,  and  midway  leaves  the  storm. 
Though  round  its  breast  the  rolling  clouds  are  spread, 
Eternal  sunshine  settles  on  its  head. 

Beside  yon  straggling  fence  that  skirts  the  way, 
With  blossomed  furze  unprofitably  gay, 
There,  in  his  noisy  mansion,  skilled  to  rule. 
The  village  master  taught  his  little  school. 
A  man  severe  he  was,  and  stern  to  view  ; 
I  knew  him  well,  and  every  truant  knew. 
Well  had  the  boding  tremblers  learned  to  trace 
The  day's  disasters  in  his  morning  face. 
Full  well  they  laughed  with  counterfeited  glee 
At  all  his  jokes,  for  many  a  joke  had  he  ; 
Full  well  the  busy  whisper,  circling  round, 
Conveyed  the  dismal  tidings  when  he  frowned ; 
Yet  he  was  kind,  or,  if  severe  in  aught. 
The  love  he  bore  to  learning  was  in  fault. 
The  village  all  declared  how  much  he  knew  ; 

.   'Twas  certain  he  could  write,  and  cipher  too  ; 
Lands  he  could  measure,  terms  and  tides  presage,. 
And  e'en  the  story  ran  that  he  could  gauge. 
In  arguing,  too,  the  parson  owned  his  skill. 
For  e'en  though  vanquished  he  could  argue  still ; 
While  words  of  learned  length  and  thundering  sound 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  203 

Amazed  the  gazing  rustics  ranged  around  ; 
And  still  they  gazed,  and  still  the  wonder  grew 
That  one  small  head  could  carry  all  he  knew. 

But  passed  is  all  his  fame  :  the  very  spot 
Where  many  a  time  he  triumphed  is  forgot. 

Near  yonder  thorn  that  lifts  its  head  on  high, 
Where  once  the  sign-post  caught  the  passing  eye, 
Low  lies  that  house  where  nut-brown  draughts  inspired, 
Where  gray-beard  mirth  and  smiling  toil  retired, 
Where  village  statesmen  talked  with  looks  profound. 
And  news  much  older  than  their  ale  went  round. 
Imagination  fondly  stoops  to  trace 
The  parlor  splendors  of  that  festive  place,  — 
The  whitewashed  wall,  the  nicely-sanded  floor, 
The  varnished  clock  that  clicked  behind  the  door, 
The  chest  contrived  a  double  debt  to  pay, 
A  bed  by  night,  a  chest  of  drawers  by  day, 
The  pictures  placed  for  ornament  and  use. 
The  twelve  good  rules,  the  royal  game  of  goose, 
The  hearth,  except  when  winter  chilled  the  day, 
With  aspen  boughs,  and  flowers,  and  fennel  gay, 
While  broken  tea-cups,  wisely  kept  for  show. 
Ranged  o'er  the  chimney,  glistened  in  a  row. 

Ye  friends  to  truth,  ye  statesmen,  who  survey 
The  rich  man's  joys  increase,  the  poor's  decay, 
'Tis  yours  to  judge  how  wide  the  limits  stand 
Between  a  splendid  and  a  happy  land. 
Proud  swells  the  tide  with  loads  of  freighted  ore, 
And  shouting  Folly  hails  them  from  her  shore  ; 
Hoards  even  beyond  the  miser's  wish  abound. 
And  rich  men  flock  from  all  the  world  around  ; 
Yet  count  our  gains  :  'this  wealth  is  but  a  name 
That  leaves  our  useful  products  still  the  same.^ 
Not  so  the  loss  :  the  man  of  wealth  and  pride  ' 
Takes  up  a  space  that  many  poor  supplied  — 
Space  for  his  lake,  his  park's  extended  bounds. 
Space  for  his  horse,  his  equipage,  and  hounds  ; 
The  robe  that  wraps  his  limbs  in  silken  sloth 
Has  robbed  the  neighboring  fields  of  half  their  growth  ; 
His  seat,  where  solitary  sports  are  seen, 


204  HAND-BOOK   OF  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

Indignant  spurns  the  cottage  from  the  green  ; 
Around  the  world  each  needful  product  flies, 
For  all  the  luxuries  the  world  supplies  : 
While  thus  the  land,  adorned  for  pleasure  all, 
In  barren  splendor  feebly  waits  the  fall. 

Where  then,  ah  !  where  shall  poverty  reside, 
To  'scape  the  pressure  of  contiguous  pride  ? 
If  to  some  common's  fenceless  limits  strayed 
He  drives  his  flock  to  pick  the  scanty  blade, 
Those  fenceless  fields  the  sons  of  wealth  divide. 
And  even  the  bare-worn  common  is  denied. 

If  to  the  city  sped,  what  waits  him  there  ? 
To  see  profusion  that  he  must  not  share ; 
To  see  ten  thousand  baneful  arts  combined 
To  pamper  luxury  and  thin  mankind  ; 
To  see  each  joy  the  sons  of  pleasure  know, 
Extorted  from  his  fellow-creature's  woe  : 
Here,  while  the  courtier  glitters  in  brocade. 
There  the  pale  artist  plies  the  sickly  trade  ; 
Here,  while  the  proud  their  long-drawn  pomps  display, 
There  the  black  gibbet  glooms  beside  the  way. 
The  dome  where  pleasure  holds  her  midnight  reign. 
Here,  richly  decked,  admits  the  gorgeous  train  ; 
Tumultuous  grandeur  crowds  the  blazing  square, 
The  rattling  chariots  clash,  the  torches  glare. 
Sure  scenes  like  these  no  troubles  e'er  annoy ; 
Sure  these  denote  one  universal  joy ! 
Are  these  thy  serious  thoughts  ?  —  Ah,  turn  thine  eyes 
Where  the  poor  houseless  shivering  female  lies. 
She  once,  perhaps,  in  village  plenty  blessed, 
Has  wept  at  tales  of  innocence  distressed  ; 
Her  modest  looks  the  cottage  might  adorn. 
Sweet  as  the  primrose  peeps  beneath  the  thorn ; 
Now  lost  to  all,  her  friends,  her  virtue  fled. 
Near  her  betrayer's  door  she  lays  her  head. 
And,  pinched  with  cold,  and  shrinking  from  the  shower. 
With  heavy  heart  deplores  that  luckless  hour 
When,  idly  first  ambitious  of  the  town. 
She  left  her  wheel,  and  robes  of  country  brown. 

Do  thine,  sweet  Auburn,  thine,  tlie  loveliest  train, 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  SOiJ 

Do  thy  fair  tribes  participate  her  pain  ? 
E'en  now,  perhaps,  by  cold  and  hunger  led, 
At  proud  men's  doors  they  ask  a  little  bread. 

Ah,  no  !     To  distant  climes,  a  dreary  scene, 
Where  half  the  convex  world  intrudes  between. 
Through  torrid  tracts  with  fainting  steps  they  go, 


^2 


Where  wildAltama  murmurs  to  their  woe. 

Good  Heaven  !  what  sorrows  gloomed  that  parting  day 
That  called  them  from  their  native  walks  away ! 
When  the  poor  exiles,  every  pleasure  past, 
Hung  round  their  bowers,  and  fondly  looked  their  last ; 
And  took  a  long  farewell,  and  wished  in  vain 
For  seats  like  these  beyond  the  western  main ; 
And  shuddering  still  to  face  the  distant  deep, 
Returned  and  wept,  and  still  returned  to  weep. 
The  good  old  sire,  the  first,  prepared  to  go 
To  new-found  worlds,  and  wept  for  others'  woe  ; 
But  for  himself,  in  conscious  virtue  brave, 
He  only  wished  for  worlds  beyond  the  grave  ; 
His  lovely  daughter,  lovelier  in  her  tears, 
The  fond  companion  of  his  helpless  years. 
Silent  went  next,  neglectful  of  her  charms. 
And  left  a  lover's  for  a  father's  arms  ; 
With  louder  plaints  the  mother  spoke  her  woes, 
And  blessed  the  cot  where  every  pleasure  rose. 
And  kissed  her  thoughtless  babes  with  many  a  tear, 
And  clasped  them  close,  in  sorrow  doubly  dear ; 
Whilst  her  fond  husband  strove  to  lend  relief 
In  all  the  silent  manliness  of  grief 

Even  now  the  devastation  is  begun. 
And  half  the  business  of  destruction  done  ; 
Even  now,  methinks,  as  pondering  here  I  stand, 
I  see  the  rural  Virtues  leave  the  land : 
Down  where  yon  anchoring  vessel  spreads  the  sail, 
That  idly  waiting  flaps  with  every  gale. 
Downward  they  move,  —  a  melancholy  band,  — 
Pass  from  the  shore,  and  darken  all  the  strand : 
Contented  Toil,  and  hospitable  Care, 
And  kind  connubial  Tenderness  are  there, 


2o6 


HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 


(Tu 


And  Piety,  with  wishes  placed  above, 
And  steady  Loyalty,  and  faithful  Love. 

And  thou,  sweet  Poetry,  thou  loveliest  maid, 
Still  first  to  fly  where  sensual  joys  invade, 
Unfit  in  these  degenerate  times  of  shame 
To  catch  the  heart,  or  strike  for  honest  fame  — 
Dear,  charming  nymph,  neglected  and  decried. 
My  shame  in  crowds,  my  solitary  pride. 
Thou  source  of  all  my  bliss,  and  all  my  woe. 
That  found'st  me  poor  at  first,  and  keep'st  me  so— ->. 


.    Thou  guide  by  which  the  nobler  arts  excel, 
Thou  nurse  of  every  virtue  —  fare  thee  well. 
Farewell !  and  O,  where'er  thy  voice  be  tried 
OnSrornea's  cliffs,  oi^ambamarca's  side, 
Whether  where  equinoctial  fervors  glow, 
Or  winter  wraps  the  polar  world  in  snow. 
Still  let  thy  voice,  prevailing  over  time. 
Redress  the  rigors  of  the  inclement  clime. 
Aid  slighted  truth  ;  with  thy  persuasive  strain 
Teach  erring  man  to  spurn  the  rage  of  gain  ; 
Teach  him,  that  states  of  native  strength  possessed 
Though  very  poor,  may  still  be  very  blessed  ; 
That  trade's  proud  empire  hastes  to  swift  decay, 
As  ocean  sweeps  the  labored  mole  away ; 
While  self-dependent  power  can  time  defy,  / 

vAs  rocks  resist  the  billows  and  the  sky.  / 


// 


'^^i 


3) 


RETALIATION. 


^I)h 


/ 


Of  old,  when  Scarron  his  companions  invited,  v 
Each  guest  brought  his  dish,  and  the  feast  was  united  ; 
If  our  landlord  supplies  us  with  beef  and  with  fish. 
Let  each  guest  bring  himself — and  he  brings  the  best  dish  : 
Our  dean  shall  be  venison,  just  fresh  from  the  plains  \Jjjr) 
CjL'vyvii/t'^^^^^''^  Burke  shall  be  tongue,  with  the  garnish  of  brains ; 
Our  Will  shall  be  wild  fowl,  of  excellent  flavor ; 
And  Dick  with  his  pepper  shall  heighten  their  savor  ^,^ 
Our  Cumberland's  sweet-bread  its  place  shall  obtain  ;16 
K  AndTOouglas  is  pudding,  substantial  and  plain  ; 
Our  Garrick's  a  salad  —  for  in  him  we  see 


0\  OLIVER   GOLDSMITH.  _        ,       207 


Oil,  vinegar,  sugar,  and  saltness  agree;  -  '''^'*'^^^xX^  <^  t  '    ^  -'    "^ 

To  make  out  the  dinner,  full  certain  I  am  j  /^^aJK  dSt^Vvij-v^  S 

That  Ridge  is  anchovy,  and  Reynolds  is  lamb  ;'<  <^Ll^y9  J^\^'T  VV^ 
That  Hickey's  a  capon,  and  by  the  same  rule,*//'  '^*^^>J-^''^  fU 
Magnanimous  Goldsmith  a  gooseberry  fool.  '  i.^''i''^<*''V^ 

At  a  dinner  so  various,  at  such  a  repast,  <^  "'^. 

Who'd  not  be  a  glutton,  and  stick  to  the  last  ? 

Here  lies  our  good  Edmund,  whose  genius  was  such, 
We  scarcely  can  praise  it  or  blame  it  too  much  ; 
Who,  born  for  the  universe,  narrowed  his  mind, 
And  to  party  gave  up  what  was  meant  for  mankind. 
Though  fraught  with  all  learning,  yet  straining  his  throat 
To  persuade  Tommy  Townshend  to  lend  him  a  vote  ; 
Who,  too  deep  for  his  hearers,  still  went  on  refining, 
And  thought  of  convincing,  while  they  thought  of  dining. 
Though  equal  to  all  things,  for  all  things  unfit ; 
Too  nice  for  a  statesman,  too  proud  for  a  wit ; 
For  a  patriot  too  cool ;  for  a  drudge  disobedient ; 
And  too  fond  of  the  right  to  pursue  the  expedient. 
In  short,  'twas  his  fate,  unemployed,  or  in  place,  sir, 
To  eat  mutton  cold,  and  cut  blocks  with  a  razor. 

Here  lies  honest  Richard,  whose  fate  I  must  sigh  at ; 
Alas  !  that  such  frolic  should  now  be  so  quiet ! 
What  spirits  were  his  !  what  wit  and  what  whim  ! 

Now  breaking  a  jest,  and  now  breaking  a  limb ;  v 

Now  wrangling  and  grumbling  to  keep  up  the  ball ; 
Now  teasing  and  vexing,  yet  laughing  at  all ! 
In  short,  so  provoking  a  devil  v/as  Dick, 
That  we  wished  him  full  ten  times  a  day  at  Old  Nick ; 
But,  missing  his  mirth  and  agreeable  vein. 
As  often  we  wished  to  have  Dick  back  again. 

Here  Hes  David  Garrick  —  describe  me,  who  can, 
An  abridgment  of  all  that  was  pleasant  in  man  : 
As  an  actor,  confessed  without  rival  to  shine ; 
As  a  wit,  if  not  first,  in  the  very  first  line  ; 
Yet,  with  talents  like  these,  and  an  excellent  heart, 
The  man  had  his  failings  —  a  dupe  to  his  art. 
<^  Like  an  ill-judging  beauty,  his  colors  he  spread, .  ,• 


1-1- 


K   cfF  EJ 


j^..j^"208  HAND-BOOK   CfP   ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

^    w  /         And  beplastered  with  rouge  his  own  natural  red. 
9*'  'j'  \        On  the  stage  he  was  natural,  simple,  affecting  ; 
'Twas  only  that  when  he  was  off  he  was  acting. 
With  no  reason  on  earth  to  go  out  of  his  way, 
,.)      ',  He  turned  and  he  varied  full  ten  times  a  day. 

1/  ,  /l  -'  Though  secure  of  our  hearts,  yet  confoundedly  sick 

,^^J- dy''-       If  they  were  not  his  own  by  finessing  and  trick, 
-XXA>  He  cast  off  his  friends  as  a  huntsman  his  pack, 

For  he  knew  when  he  pleased  he  could  whistle  them  back. 
^/it  vu" '-  Of  praise  a  mere  glutton,  he  swallowed  what  came, 

I   V  >  ?  And  the  puff  of  a  dunce,  he  mistook  it  for  fame  ; 

Till,  his  relish  grown  callous  almost  to  disease, 
Who  peppered  the  highest  was  surest  to  please. 
'      '•,  /^     But  let  us  be  candid,  and  speak  out  our  mind  ; 
-iTLfCA/^^^^  If  dunces  applauded,  he  paid  them  in  kind. 
^«rf>vt^^!:7V  ".^  Ye^enricks,  yeKellys,  and^^oodfalls  so  grave, 
>-^  P    -  ,    U-^^'^What  a  commerce  was  yours,  while  you  got  and  you  gave  ! 
i   lAi^t^yV^  '^^^^  ^'^^  Grub  Street  re-echo  the  shouts  that  you  raised. 
While  he  was  be-Rosciused,  and  you  were  be-praised  ! 


A' 


Ip  But  peace  to  his  spirit,  wherever  it  flies. 


^^^WA'^i-^     To  act  as  an  angel,  and  mix  with  the  skies 
'xJL/LJ^f^  ^hose  poets,  who  owe  their  best  fame  to  his  skill, 


''Ml  Shall  still  be  his  flatterers,  go  where  he  will ; 


Shi 
*  '       'Jt^i^A-n/^^'^  Shakespeare  receive  him  with  praise  and  with  love, 

yflly^v^\j4A*^  >        And  Beaumonts  and  Bens  b.e  his  Kellys  above. 


^I^JiJ      MJiere  Reynolds  is  laid,  and,  to  tell  you  my  mind, 
^^  Jj^tA^  ^^  ^^^  ^^*  ^^^^  ^  wiser  or  better  behind : 

^X'^'^'^^V/  ^     His  pencil  was  striking,  resistless,  and  grand  ; 
t^i^^\^Z-^>f*^^'*ll'is  manners  were  gentle,  complying,  and  bland ; 


"^C^/tVM^V^^till  born  to  improve  us  in  every  part  — 

A   /\  If^  J^"^^  pencil  our  faces,  his  manners  our  heart. 
J{         ryt'T^i  coxcombs  averse,  yet  most  civilly  steering, 
tfy*'''*'''^H-^"Wlien  they  judged  without  skill  he  was  still  hard  of  hearing 
f/XJiyt\A/^^       When  they  talked  of  their  Raphaels,  Correggios,  and  stuff, 
r      A  a'         ,j^fj  He  shifted  his  trumpet,  and  only  took  snuff".  ^       -> 


^    iB     .  A/s/A  4 1  He  shifted  his  trumpet,  and  only  took  snuff".  /       ^^ 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


20  c; 


EDWIN   AND   ANGELINA. 


"  Turn,  gentle  hermit  of  the  dale, 

And  guide  my  lonely  way 
To  where  yon  taper  cheers  the  vale 

With  hospitable  ray ; 

"  For  here,  forlorn  and  lost,  I  tread, 
With  fainting  steps  and  slow, 

Where  wilds,  immeasurably  spread. 
Seem  lengthening  as  I  go." 

'*  Forbear,  my  son,"  the  hermit  cries, 
"To  tempt  the  dangerous  gloom  ; 

For  yonder  faithless  phantom  flies 
To  lure  thee  to  thy  doom. 

"  Here  to  the  houseless  child  of  want 

My  door  is  open  still  ; 
And,  though  my  portion  is  but  scant, 

I  give  it  with  good  will. 

"Then  turn,  to-night,  and  freely  share 
Whate'er  my  cell  bestows  — 

My  rushy  couch  and  frugal  fare. 
My  blessing  and  repose. 

"  No  flocks  that  range  the  valley  free 

To  slaughter  I  condemn. 
Taught  by  that  power  who  pities  me, 

I  learn  to  pity  them. 

"  But  from  the  mountain's  grassy  side 

A  guiltless  feast  I  bring  — 
A  scrip  with  herbs  and  fruits  supplied. 

And  water  from  the  spring. 

"Then,  pilgrim,  turn,  thy  cares  forego  ; 

All  earth-bom  cares  are  wrong : 
Man  wants  but  little  here  below, 

Nor  wants  that  little  long." 

Soft  as  the  dew  from  heaven  descends 

His  gentle  accents  fell  ; 
The  modest  stranger  lowly  bends, 

And  follows  to  the  cell. 

Far  in  a  wilderness  obscure 

The  lonely  mansion  lay, 
A  refuge  to  the  neighboring  poor, 

And  strangers  led  astray. 

No  stores  beneath  its  humble  thatch 
Required  a  master's  care ; 

H 


The  wicket,  opening  with  a  latch. 
Received  the  harmless  pair. 

And  now,  when  busy  crowds  retire 

To  take  their  evening  rest. 
The  hermit  trimmed  his  little  fire, 

And  cheered  his  pensive  guest. 

And  spread  his  vegetable  store, 
And  gayly  pressed,  and  smiled. 

And,  skilled  in  legendary  lore, 
The  lingering  hours  beguiled. 

Around,  in  s^'mpathetic  mirth, 

Its  tricks  the  kitten  tries  ; 
The  cricket  chirrups  in  the  hearth  ; 

The  crackling  fagot  flies. 

But  nothing  could  a  charm  impart 

To  soothe  the  stranger's  woe  ; 
For  grief  was  heavy  at  his  heart, 

And  tears  began  to  flow. 

His  rising  cares  the  hermit  spied, 
With  answering  care  oppressed  : 

"And  whence,  unhappy  youth,"  he  cried, 
"The  sorrows  of  thy  breast? 

"  From  better  habitations  spumed, 

Reluctant  dost  thou  rove  ? 
Or  grieve  for  friendship  unretumed. 

Or  unregarded  love  ? 

"Alas!  the  joys  that  fortune  brings 

Are  trifling,  and  decay  ; 
And  those  who  prize  the  paltry  things. 

More  trifling  still  than  they. 

"  And  what  is  friendship  but  a  name, 

A  charm  that  lulls  to  sleep, 
A  shade  that  follows  wealth  or  fame. 

And  leaves  the  wretch  to  weep  ? 

"And  love  is  still  an  emptier  sound  — 

The  modern  fair  one's  jest  ; 
On  earth  unseen,  or  only  found 

To  warm  the  turtle's  nest. 

"  For  shame,  fond  youth  ;  thy  sorrows  hush, 

And  spurn  the  sex,"  he  said ; 
But,  while  he  spoke,  a  rising  blush 

His  love-lom  guest  betrayed. 


210 


HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 


Surprised,  he  sees  new  beauties  rise, 

Swift  mantling  to  the  view, 
Like  colors  o'er  the  morning  skies, 

As  bright,  as  tran  iient  too. 

'J'he  bashful  look,  the  rising  breast. 

Alternate  spread  alarms : 
The  lovely  stranger  stands  confessed, 

A  maid  in  all  her  charms. 

"  And  ah  !  forgive  a  stranger  rude, 
A  wretch  forlorn,"  she  cried, 

"  Whose  feet  unhallowed  thus  intrude 
Where  heaven  and  yoa  reside. 

'*  But  let  a  maid  thy  pity  share. 
Whom  love  has  taught  to  stray ; 

Who  seeks  for  rest,  but  finds  despair 
Companion  of  her  way. 

"  My  father  lived  beside  the  Tyne  ; 

A  wealthy  lord  was  he  ; 
And  all  his  wealth  was  marked  as  mine  ; 

He  had  but  on'y  me. 

"  To  win  me  from  his  tender  arms 

Unnumbered  suitors  came. 
Who  praised  me  for  imputed  charms. 

And  felt  or  feigned  a  flame. 

"  Each  hour  a  mercenary  crowd 
With  richest  proffers  strove  ; 

Among  the  rest  young  Edwin  bowed. 
But  never  talked  of  love. 

"  In  humble,  simplest  habit  clad. 
No  wealth  or  power  had  he  ; 

Wisdom  and  worth  were  all  he  had  — 
But  these  were  all  to  me. 

"And  when,  beside  me  in  the  dale. 

He  carolled  lays  of  love. 
His  breath  lent  fragrance  to  the  gale. 

And  music  to  the  grove. 

"  The  blossom  opening  to  the  day, 
The  dews  of  heaven  refined, 


Could  nought  of  purity  display 
To  emulate  his  mind. 

"The  dew,  the  blossom  on  the  tree. 
With  charms  inconstant  shine ; 

Their  charms  were  his  ;  but,  woe  to  me, 
Their  constancy  was  mine. 

"  For  still  I  tried  each  fickle  art. 

Importunate  and  vain ; 
And  while  his  passion  touched  my  heart, 

I  triumphed  in  his  pain. 

"Till  quite  dejected  with  my  scorn. 

He  left  me  to  my  pride. 
And  sought  a  solitude  forlorn, 

In  secret,  where  he  died. 

"  But  mine  thd  sorrow,  mine  the  fault. 

And  well  my  life  shall  pay ; 
I'll  seek  the  solitude  he  sought. 

And  stretch  me  where  he  lay. 

"And  there,  forlorn,  despairing,  hid, 

I'll  lay  me  down  and  die ; 
'Twas  so  for  me  that  Edwin  did, 

And  so  for  him  will  I." 

"  Forbid  it,  Heaven  !  "  the  hermit  crie4 
And  clasped  her  to  his  breast : 

The  wondering  fair  one  turned  to  chide  -» 
'Twas  Edwi.i's  self  that  pressed. 

"Turn,  Angelina!  ever  dear  — 

My  charmer,  turn  to  see 
Thy  own,  thy  long-lost  Edwin,  here. 

Restored  to  love  and  thee. 

"Thus  let  me  hold  thee  to  my  heart. 

And  every  care  resign  ; 
And  shall  we  never,  never  part. 

My  life  —  my  all  that's  mine  ! 

"  No,  never,  fi-om  this  hour  to  part, 

We  live  and  love  so  true  ; 
The  sigh  that  rends  thy  constant  hear^ 

Shall  break  thy  Edwin's  too." 


EDMUND   BURKE.  211 

EDMUND   BURKE. 

Edmund  Burke  was  bom  in  Dublin  in  1730,  and,  after  finishing  his  education,  went  to 

■*'V^'  '  London,  where  for  a  time  he  studied  law,  but  never  followed  it  as  a  profession.     His  earli- 

^irf\^f/lA^   est  work  of  any  importance.  On  the  Sublime  and  Beautiful,  has  little  philosophical  value, 

fl  .    yi  ^  ^/and,  as  Macaulay  says,  is  as  dry  as  a  parliamentary  report.     It  was  in  political  life  that  his 

Wiivo^ "l^  -^reat  talents  as  an  orator  and  writer  v/ere  developed  ;  and  such  was  the  part  ho  took  in 

^  L^^Lyi-  '■■  public  affairs,  that  to  write  his  memoir  would  be  to  write  the  history  of  England  during  his 

1^  ,      time.     His  principal  efforts  were  his  orations  On  the  Impeachment  of  Warren  Hastings, 

("i-'l'-  '  I  his  Letters  on  a/jRegicide  Peace,  A  Letter  to  a  Noble  Lord,  and  his  speeches  upon  the 

•    American  War.     The  French  Revolution  appears  to  have  disturbed  Burke's  equanimity 

more  than  any  other  event ;  it  colored  all  his  speeches,  and  clouded  his  life.     But  the  scholar 

^^  '^  '  who  studies  the  history  of  France  will  find  that  that  explosion,  terrible  as  it  was,  was  as 

/^^  /^y  ,"•  r  "'  necessary  as  a  thunder-storm  after  a  sultry  day. 

The  Letter  to  a  Noble  Lord,  which  is  here  printed,  somewhat  abridged,  has  been  se- 
lected as  a  specimen,  because  it  is,  in  some  measure,  a  review  of  Burke's  life  and  public 
services,  because  it  gives  some  idea  of  the  state  of  parties,  and  because  it  shows,  quite  as 
forcibly  as  any  of  his  works,  his  power  of  consecutive  thought,  the  ample  fullness  of  his 
diction,  his  exuberant  imagery,  and  the  manly  dignity  of  his  character.  He  is  at  once  the  most 
philosophical,  the  most  ornate,  and  the  most  powerful  writer  among  modem  statesmen,  and  we 
shall  be  obliged  to  go  back  to  Cicero,  at  least,  to  find  his  equal.  Burke  died  at  Beacons- 
field  in  1797.  A  complete  and  beautiful  edition  of  his  works,  in  twelve  volumes,  is  published 
by  Messrs.  Little,  Brown,  and  Co. 

[A  Letter  to  a  Noble  Lord  on  the  Attacks  made  upon  Mr.  Burke  and  his  Pension,  in  the 
,     ,  House  of  Lords,  by  the  Duke  of.jpedford  and  the  Earl  of  Lauderdale,  1796.  J 

,  '.f^^My  Lord:   I  could  hardly  flatter  myself  with  the  hope  that  so 

^fJ^^Ac/'^ very  early  in  the  season  I  should  have  to  acknowledge  obligations  to 

-^  /.  . .  df  the  Duke  of  Bedford  and  to  the  Earl  of  Lauderdale.     These  noble 

persons  have  lost  no  time  in  conferring  upon  me  that  sort  of  honor 

which  it  is  alone  within  their  competence,  and  which  it  is  certainly 

most  congenial  to  their  nature  and  their  manners,  to  bestow. 

To  be  ill  spoken  of,  in  whatever  language  they  speak,  by  the  zealots 
of  the  new  sect  in  philosophy  and  pohtics,  of  which  these  noble 
persons  think  so  charitably,  and  of  which  others  think  so  justly,  to 
me  is  no  matter  of  uneasiness  or  surprise.  To  have  incurred  the 
displeasure  of  the'^uke  of  Orleans,  or  the  Duke  of  Bedford,  to  fall 
under  the  censure  oftptizen  Brissot,  or  of  his  friend  the  Earl  of 
Lauderdale,  I  ought  to  consider  as  proofs,  not  the  least  satisfactory, 
that  I  have  produced  some  part  of  the  effect  I  proposed  by  my  en- 
deavor. I  have  labored  hard  to  earn  what  the  noble  lords  are  gen- 
!  ^  erous  enough  to  pay.  Personal  offence  I  have  given  them  none. 
The  part  they  take  against  me  is  from  zeal  to  the  cause.  It  is  well 
—  it  is  perfectly  well.  I  have  to  do  homage  to  their  justice.  I 
have  to  thank  the  Bedfords  and  the  Lauderdales  for  having  so  faith- 


212^      ,       ,    ,       cHAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

" '  ^Uy  and  so  fully  acquitted  towards  me  whatever  arrear  of  debt 
was  left  undischarged  by  thd>Priestleys  and  the  Paines.^'^  ^ 

Some,  perhaps,  may  think  them  executors  in  their  own  wrong :  I, 
at  least,  have  nothing  to  complain  of.  They  have  gone  beyond  the 
demands  of  justice.  They  have  been  (a  little,  perhaps,  beyond  their 
intention)  favorable  to  me.  They  have  been  the  means  of  bringing 
out  by  their  invectives  the  handsome  things  which  Lord  Grenville 
has  had  the  goodness  and  condescension  to  say  in  my  behalf.  Re- 
tired as  I  am  from  the  world,  and  from  all  its  affairs  and  all  its 
pleasures,  I  confess  it  does  kindle  in  my  nearly  extinguished  feelings 
a  very  vivid  satisfaction  to  be  so  attacked  and  so  commended.     It  is 

/  ^.;-^-'*' soothing  to  my  wounded  mind  to  be  commended  by  an  able,  vigor- 
'  ous,  and  well-informed  statesman,  and  at  the  very  moment  when  he 
stands  forth,  with  a  manliness  and  resolution  worthy  of  himself  and  of 
his  cause,  for  the  preservation  of  the  person  and  government  of  our 
sovereign,  and  therein  for  the  security  of  the  laws,  the  liberties,  the 
'  morals,  and  the  lives  of  his  people.  To  be  in  any  fair  way  con- 
nected with  such  things  is  indeed  a  distinction.  No  philosophy  can 
make  me  above  it ;  no  melancholy  can  depress  me  so  low  as  to 
make  me  wholly  insensible  to  such  an  honor.  Why  will  they  not 
let  me  remain  in  obscurity  and  inaction  ?  Are  they  apprehensive,  Ji 
that,  if  an  atom  of  me  remains,  the  sect  has  something  to  fear?  Jht~f 
Miist  I  be  annihilated,  lest,  like  old^ohn  Zisca's,  my  skin  might  be^5(^^ 
made  into  a  drum,  to  animate  Europe  to  eternal  battle  against  a    '/'■«- 

-     ^  .  -  _  tyranny  that  direatens  to  overwhelm  all  Europe  and  all  the  tiuman/'/'tt^ 

/    race  ?  ^^S^wiA 

,J]l^viU<U^^-^''  ......  ^^  ^^ 


t  (i^vV'^'  In  one  thing  I  can  excuse  the  Duke  of  Bedford  for  his  attack  upon 
.       ^"f^       ,    me  and  my  mortuary  pension  :   He  cannot  readily  comprehend  the        *--; 
_fj  ^   ~  transaction  he  condemns.     What  I  have  obtained  was  the  fruit  of'^  v^/ 

no  bargain,  the  production  of  no  intrigue,  the  result  of  no  compro-      vt^Z) 
mise,  the  effect  of  no  solicitation.     The  first  suggestion  of  it  never    '-^f^ 
came  from  me,  mediately  or  immediately,  to  his  majesty  or  any  of 
his  ministers.     It  was  long  known  that  the  instant  my  engagements 
would  permit  it,  and  before  the  heaviest  of  all  calamities  had  forevfii^W^ 
condemned  me  to  obscurity  and  sorrow,  I  had  resolved  on  a  total  '    ' 
retreat.     I  had  executed  that  design.     I  was  entirely  out  of  the  way 
of  serving  or  of  hurting  any  statesman  or  any  party,  whefl  the  min- 
isters so  generously  and  so  nobly  carried  into  effect  the  spontaneous 
bounty  of  the  crown.     Both  descriptions   have   acted  as   became 
^    them.     When   I  could  no  longer  serve  them,  the  ministers  have 

,/     r  •/■  .  '7t  ..r^ ^    JLJiu  dut^i^'^-i-'iri/^ 


EDMUND   BURKE.  213 

considered  my  situation.  Wlien  I  could  no  longer  hurt  them,  the 
revolutionists  have  trampled  on  my  infirmity.  My  gratitude,  I  trust, 
is  equal  to  the  manner  in  which  the  benefit  was  conferred.  It  came 
to  me,  indeed,  at  a  time  of  life,  and  in  a  state  of  mind  and  body,  in 
which  no  circumstance  of  fortune  could  afford  me  any  real  pleasure. 
But  this  was  no  fault  in  the  royal  donor,  or  in  his  ministers,  who 
were  pleased,  in  acknowledging  the  merits  of  an  invalid  servant 
of  the  public,  to  assuage  the  sorrows  of  a  desolate  old  man. 

For  whatever  I  have  been  (I  am  now  no  more)  I  put  myself  ok 
my  country.  I  ought  to  be  allowed  a  reasonable  freedom,  because  I 
stand  upon  my  deliverance  ;  and  no  culprit  ought  to  plead  in  irons. 
Even  in  the  utmost  latitude  of  defensive  liberty,  I  wish  to  preserve 
all  possible  decorum.  Whatever  it  may  be  in  the  eyes  of  these  no- 
ble persons  themselves,  to  me  their  situation  calls  for  the  most 
profound  respect.  If  I  should  happen  to  trespass  a  little,  which  I 
trust  I  shall  not,  let  it  always  be  supposed  that  a  confusion  of  char- 
acters may  produce  mistakes  ;  that,  in  the  masquerades  of  the  grand 
carnival  of  our  age,  whimsical  adventures  happen,'  odd  things  are 
said  and  pass  off.  If  I  should  fail  a  single  point  in  the  high  respect 
I  owe  to  those  illustrious  persons,  I  cannot  be  supposed  to  mean 
the  Duke  of  Bedford  and  the  Earl  of  Lauderdale  of  the  House  of  ,  i  M/,h^ 
Peers,  but  the  Duke  of  Bedford  and  the  Earl  of  Lauderdale  ofvPal-  '< 
ace  Yard  —  the  Dukes  and  Earls  of  Brentford.  There  they  are  on  / 
the  pavement ;  there  they  seem  to  come  nearer  to  my  humble  level, 
and,  virtually  at  least,  to  have  waived  their  high  privilege. 

Making  this  protestation,  I  refuse  all  revolutionary  tribunals, 
where  men  have  been  put  to  death  for  no  other  reason  than  that 
they  had  obtained  favors  from  the  crown.  I  claim,  not  the  letter,  but  the 
spirit  of  the  old  English  law  —  that  is,  to  be  tried  by  my  peers.  I 
dechne  his  Grace's  jurisdiction  as  a  judge.  I  challenge  the  Duke 
of  Bedford,  as  a  juror,  to  pass  upon  the  value  of  my  services.  What- 
ever his  natural  parts  may  be,  I  cannot  recognize  in  his  few  and 
idle  years  the  competence  to  judge  of  my  long  and  laborious  life. 
If  I  can  help  it,  he  shall  not  be  on  the  inquest  of  my  quantum^^ ^^^  ,  | 
meruit.  Poor  rich  man!  he  can  hardly  know  anything  of  pubhc  ' 
industry  in  its  exertions,  or  can  estimate  its  compensations  when  its 
work  is  done.  I  have  no  doubt  of  his  Grace's  readiness  in  all  the 
calculations  of  vulgar  arithmetic  ;  but  I  shrewdly  suspect  that  he  is 
little  studied  in  the  theory  of  moral  proportions,  and  has  never 
learned  the  rule  of  three  in  the  arithmetic  of  policy  and  state. 


-^'    //        \^ 

214  HAND-BOOK   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

His  Grace  thinks  I  have  obtained  too  much.  I  answer,  that  my 
exertions,  whatever  they  have  been,  were  such  as  no  hopes  of  pecunia- 
ry reward  could  possibly  excite  ;  and  no  pecuniary  compensation  can 
possibly  reward  them.  Between  money  and  such  services,  if  done 
by  abler  men  than  I  am,  there  is  no  common  principle  of  compari- 
son :  they  are  quantities  incommensurable.  Money  is  made  for  the 
comfort  and  convenience  of  animal  life.  It  cannot  be  a  reward  for 
what  mere  animal  hfe  must,  indeed,  sustain,  but  never  can  inspire. 
With  submission  to  his  Grace,  I  have  not  had  more  than  sufficient.  As 
to  any  noble  use,  I  trust  I  know  how  to  employ  as  well  as  he  a  much 
greater  fortune  than  he  possesses.  In  a  more  confined  appHcation, 
I  certainly  stand  in  need  of  every  kind  of  relief  and  easement  much 
more  than  he  does.  When  I  say  I  have  not  received  any  more  than 
I  deserve  —  is  this  the  language  I  hold  tdi^^Iajesty  ?  No  !  Far,  very 
far,  from  it !  Before  that  presence  I  claim  no  merit  at  all.  Every- 
thing towards  me  is  favor  and  bounty.  One  style  to  a  gracious 
benefactor ;  another  to  a  proud  and  insulting  foe. 

Let  me  tell  my  youthful  censor  that  the  necessities  of  that  time 
required  something  very  different  from  what  others  then  suggested, 
or  what  his  Grace  now  conceives.  Let  me  inform  him  that  it  was 
one  of  the  most  critical  periods  in  our  annals. 

Astronomers  have  supposed  that,  if  a  certain  comet,  whose  path 
intersected  the  ecliptic,  had  met  the  earth  in  some  (I  forget  what) 
sign,  it  would  have  whirled  us  along  with  it,  in  its  eccentric  course, 
into  God  knows  v/hat  regions  of  heat  and  cold.  Had  the  portentous 
comet  of  the  Rights  of  Man' (which  "from  its  horrid  hair  shakes 
pestilence  and  war,"  and  "  with  fear  of  change  perplexes  monarchs  "), 
had  that  comet  crossed  upon  us  in  that  internal  state  of  England, 
nothing  human  could  have  prevented  our  being  irresistibly  hurried 
out  of  the  highway  of  heaven  into  all  the  vices,  crimes,  horrors,  and 
miseries  of  the  French  Revolution,  i-^^-^-'^-^'  ■}].--■  J  f  ___ 

Happily,  France  was  not  thenjjacobinized.  Her  hostility  was  at 
a  good  distance.  We  had  a  limb  cut  off,  but  we  preserved  the  body  ; 
we  lost  our  colonies,  but  we  kept  our  Constitution.  There  was, 
indeed,  much  intestine  heat ;  there  was  a  dreadful  fermentation. 
Wild  and  savage  insurrection  quitted  the  woods,  and  prowled  about 
our  streets  in  the  name  of  Reform.  Such  was  the  distemper  of  the 
public  mind,  that  there  was  no  madman,  in  his  maddest  ideas  and 
maddest  projects,  who  might  not  count  upon  numbers  to  support  his 


EDMUND   BURKE.  21$ 

Many  of  the  changes,  by  a  great  misnomer  called  Parliamentary 
Reforms,  went,  not  in  the  intention  of  all  the  professors  and  sup- 
porters of  them,  undoubtedly,  but  went  in  their  certain,  and,  in  my 
opinion,  not  very  remote  effect,  home  to  the  utter  destruction  of  the 
Constitution  of  this  kingdom.  Had  they  taken  place,  not  France, 
but  England,  would  have  had  the  honor  of  leading  up  the  death- 
dance  of  democratic  revolution.  Other  projects,  exactly  coincident 
in  time  with  those,  struck  at  the  very  existence  of  the  kingdom  under 
any  Constitution.  There  are  who  remember  the  blind  fury  of  some, 
and  the  lamentable  helplessness  of  others ;  here,  a  torpid  con- 
fusion, from  a  panic  fear  of  the  danger  —  there,  the  same  inaction,  ^ 
from  a  stupid  insensibility  to  it ;  here,  well-wishers  to  the  mischief 
—  there,  indifferent  lookers-on.  At  the  same  time,  a  sort  of  National  u-  ^  i^  ^  ' 
Convention,  dubious  in  its  nature,  and  perilous  in  its  example,  nosed  "^-.^t^c^^ 
Parliament  in  the  very  seat  of  its  authority,  sat  with  a  sort  of  su-  '  ' 
perintendence  over  it,  and  little  less  than  dictated  to  it,  not  only 
laws,  but  the  very  form  and  essence  of  legislature  itself.  In  Ireland 
things  ran  in  a  still  more  eccentric  course.  Government  was  un- 
nerved, confounded,  and  in  a  manner  suspended.  Its  equipoise  was  / 
totally  gone.  I  do  not  mean  to  speak  disrespectfully  of  Loird  North. 
He  was  a  man  of  admirable  parts,  of  general  knowledge,  of  a  versa- 
tile understanding  fitted  for  every  sort  of  business,  of  infinite  wit  and 
pleasantry,  of  a  delightful  temper,  and  with  a  mind  most  perfectly 
disinterested.  But  it  would  be  only  to  degrade  myself  by  a  weak 
adulation,  and  not  to  honor  the  memory  of  a  great  man,  to  deny  that 
he  wanted  something  of  the  vigilance  and  spirit  of  command  that 
the  time  required.  Indeed,  a  darkness  next  to  the  fog  of  this  awful 
day  lowered  over  the  whole  region.  For  a  little  time  the  helm  ap- 
peared abandoned. 

Ipse  diem  noctemque  negat  discemere  ccelo,* 
Nee  meminisse  viae  media  Palinurus  in  unda. 

At  that  time  I  was  connected  with  men  of  high  place  in  the  com- 
munity. They  loved  liberty  as  much  as  the  Duke  of  Bedford  can 
do  ;  and  they  understood  it  at  least  as  well.  Perhaps  their  politics,  as 
usual,  took  a  tincture  from  their  character,  and  they  cultivated  what 
they  loved.  The  liberty  they  pursued  was  a  liberty  inseparable  from 
order,  from  virtue,  from  morals,  and  from  religion,  and  was  neither 
hypocritically  nor  fanatically  followed.  They  did  not  wish  that  lib- 
erty, in  itself  one  of  the  first  of  blessings,  should  in  its  perversion 
become  the  greatest  curse  which  could  fall  upon  mankind.     To  pre- 

*  See  Appendix. 


2l6  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

serve  the  Constitution  entire,  and  practically  equal  to  all  the  great 
ends  of  its  formation,  not  in  one  single  part,  but  in  all  its  parts,  was 
to  them  the  first  object.  Popularity  and  power  they  regarded  alike. 
These  were  with  them  only  different  means  of  obtaining  that  object, 
and  had  no  preference  over  each  other  in  their  minds,  but  as  one  or 
the  other  might  afford  a  surer  or  a  less  certain  prospect  of  arriving 
at  that  end.  It  is  some  consolation  to  me,  in  the  cheerless  gloom 
which  darkens  the  evening  of  my  life,  that  with  them  I  commenced 
my  poHtical  career,  and  never  for  a  moment,  in  reality  nor  in  appear- 
ance, for  any  length  of  time,  was  separated  from  their  good  wishes 
and  good  opinion. 

By  what  accident  it  matters  not,  nor  upon  what  desert,  but  just 
then,  and  in  the  midst  of  that  hunt  of  obloquy  which  ever  has  pur- 
sued me  with  a  full  cry  through  life,  I  had  obtained  a  very  consider- 
able degree  of  public  confidence.  I  know  well  enough  how  equiva 
cal  a  test  this  kind  of  popular  opinion  forms  of  the  merit  that  obtained 
it.  I  am  no  stranger  to  the  insecurity  of  its  tenure.  I  do  not  boast 
of  it.  It  is  mentioned  to  show,  not  how  highly  I  prize  the  thing,  but 
my  right  to  value  the  use  I  made  of  it.  I  endeavored  to  turn  that 
short-lived  advantage  to  myself  into  a  permanent  benefit  to  my  coun- 
try. Far  am  I  from  detracting  from  the  merit  of  some  gentlemen, 
out  of  office  or  in  it,  on  that  occasion.  No  !  it  is  not  my  way  to 
refuse  a  full  and  heaped  measure  of  justice  to  the  aids  that  I  receive. 
I  have  through  life  been  willing  to  give  everything  to  others,  and  to 
reserve  nothing  for  myself  but  the  inward  conscience  that  I  had 
omitted  no  pains  to  discover,  to  animate,  to  discipline,  to  direct  the 
abilities  of  the  country  for  its  service,  and  to  place  them  in  the  best 
light  to  improve  their  age,  or  to  adorn  it.  This  conscience  I  have. 
I  have  never  suppressed  any  man,  never  checked  him  for  a  moment 
in  his  course,  by  any  jealousy,  or  by  any  policy.  I  was  always  ready, 
to  the  height  of  my  means  (and  they  were  always  infinitely  below  my 
desires),  to  forward  those  abilities  which  overpowered  my  own.  He 
is  an  ill-furnished  undertaker  who  has  no  machinery  but  his  own 
hands  to  work  with.  Poor  in  my  own  faculties,  I  ever  thought  my- 
self rich  in  theirs.  In  that  period  of  difficulty  and  danger,  more 
especially,  I  consulted  and  sincerely  cooperated  with  men  of  all  par- 
ties, who  seemed  disposed  to  the  same  ends,  or  to  any  main  part  of 
them.  Nothing  to  prevent  disorder  was  omitted  :  when  it  appeared, 
nothing  to  subdue  it  was  left  uncounselled  nor  unexecuted,  as  far  as 
I  could  prevail.  At  the  time  I  speak  of,  and  having  a  momentary 
lead,  so  aided  and  so  encouraged,  and  as  a  feeble  instrument  in  a 


EDMUND   BURKE.  21/ 

mighty  hand  —  I  do  not  say  I  saved  my  country ;  I  am  sure  I  did 
my  country  important  service.  There  were  few,  indeed,  that  did  not 
at  that  time  acknowledge  it ;  and  that  time  was  thirteen  years  ago. 
It  was  but  one  voice,  that  no  man  in  the  kingdom  better  deserved 
an  honorable  provision  should  be  made  for  him. 

It  cannot  at  this  time  be  too  often  repeated,  line  upon  line,  precept 
upon  precept,  until  it  comes  into  the  currency  of  a  proverb,  To  inno- 
vate is  not  to  reform.  The  French  revolutionists  complained  of 
everything  ;  they  refused  to  reform  anything  ;  and  they  left  nothing, 
no,  nothing  at  all,  unchanged.  The  consequences  are  before  us,  not 
in  remote  history,  not  in  future  prognostication  :  they  are  about  us, 
they  are  upon  us.  They  shake  the  public  security ;  they  menace 
private  enjoyment.  They  dwarf  the  growth  of  the  young ;  they 
break  the  quiet  of  the  old.  If  we  travel,  they  stop  our  way.  They 
infest  us  in  town  ;  they  pursue  us  to  the  country.  Our  business  is 
interrupted,  our  repose  is  troubled,  our  pleasures  are  saddened,  our 
very  studies  are  poisoned  and  perverted,  and  knowledge  is  rendered 
worse  than  ignorance  by  the  enormous  evils  of  this  dreadful  inno- 
vatic^n. 

/ 
If  his  Grace  can  contemplate  the  result  of  this  complete  innova- 
tion, or,  as  some  friends  of  his  will  call  it,  reform.,  in  the  whole  body 
of  its  solidity  and  compound  mass,  at  which,  as  Hamlet  says,  the  face 
of  heaven  glows  with  horror  and  indignation,  and  which,  in  truth, 
makes  every  reflecting  mind  and  every  feeling  heart  perfectly  thought- 
sick,  without  a  thorough  abhorrence  of  everything  they  say  and  ev- 
erything they  do,  I  am  amazed  at  the  morbid  strength  or  the  natural 
infirmity  of  his  mind. 

It  was,  then,  not  my  love,  but  my  hatred  to  innovation,  that  pro- 
duced my  plan  of  reform.  Without  troubhng  myself  with  the  exact- 
ness of  the  logical  diagram,  I  considered  them  as  things  substantially 
opposite.  It  was  to  prevent  that  evil  that  I  proposed  the  measures 
which  his  Grace  is  pleased,  and  I  am  not  sorry  he  is  pleased,  to  re- 
call to  my  recollection.  I  had  (what  I  hope  that  noble  Duke  will 
remember  in  all  his  operations)  a  state  to  preserve,  as  well  as  a  state 
to  reform.  I  had  a  people  to  gratify,  but  not  to  inflame  or  mislead. 
I  do  not  claim  half  the  credit  for  what  I  did  as  for  what  I  prevented 
from  being  done.  In  that  situation  of  the  public  mind,  I  did  not 
undertake,  as  was  then  proposed,  to  new-model  the  House  of  Com- 
mons or  the  House  of  Lords,  or  to  change  the  authority  under  which 


m. 


-v 


218  HAND-BOOK   OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

1 


any  officer  of  the  crown  acted,  who  was  suffered  at  all  to  exist. 
Crown,  lords,  commons,  judicial  system,  system  of  administration, 
{i^-:f  existed  as  they  had  existed  before,  and  in  the  mode  and  manner  in 
which  they  had  always  existed.  My  measures  were,  what  I  then 
truly  stated  them  to  the  House  to  be,  in  their  intent,  healing  and 
mediatorial!  -^/V  complaint  was  made  of  too  much  influence  in  the 
Hquse  of  Commons  :  I  reduced  it  in  both  Houses  ;  and  I  gave  my 
reasons,  article  by  article,  for  every  reduction,  and  showed  why  I 
thought  it  safe  for  the  service  of  the  state.  I  heaved  the  lead  every 
inch  of  way  I  made.  A  disposition  to  expense  was  complained  of : 
to  that  I  opposed,  not  mere  retrenchment,  but  a  system  of  economy, 
.  '  Wiiich  would  make  a  random  expense,  without  plan  or  foresight,  in 
future,  not  easily  practicable.     .     .     . 

I  have  ever  abhorred,  since  the  first  dawn  of  my  understanding  to 
.  •  "  this  its  obscure  twilight,  all  the  operations  of  opinion,  fancy,  inclina- 
tion, and  will,  in  the  affairs  of  government,  where  only  a  sovereign 
reason,  paramount  to  all  forms  of  legislation  and  administration, 
should  dictate.  Government  is  made  for  the  very  purpose  of  opposing 
'  that  reason  to  will  and  to  caprice,  in  the  reformers  or  in  the  reformed, 
in  the  governors  or  in  the  governed,  in  kings,  in  senates,  or  in  people. 

But  do  I  justify  his  Majesty's  grace  on  these  grounds  }     I   think 
them  the  least  of  my  services.     The  time  gave  them  an  occasional 
/.        ^?  value.     What  I  have  done  in  the  way  of  political  economy  was  far 
'  from  confined  to  this  body  of  measures.     I  did  not  come  into  Par- 

liament to  con  my  lesson.  I  had  earned  my  pension  before  I  set  my 
foot  iir'^St.  Stephen's  Chapel.  I  was  prepared  and  disciplined  to  this 
political  warfare.  The  first  session  I  sat  in  Parliament,  I  found  it 
necessary  to  analyze  the  whole  commercial,  financial,  constitutional, 
and  foreign  interests  of  Great  Britain  and  its  empire.  A  great  deal 
was  then  done  ;  and  more,  far  more,  would  have  been  done,  if  more 
had  been  permitted  by  events.  Then,  in  the  vigor  of  my  manhood, 
my  constitution  sunk  under  my  labor.  Had  I  then  died  (and  I 
seemed  to  myself  very  near  death),  I  had  then  earned  for  those  who 
belonged  to  me  more  than  the  Duke  of  Bedford's  ideas  of  service 
are  of  power  to  estimate.  But,  in  truth,  these  services  I  am  called 
to  account  for  are  not  those  on  which  I  value  myself  the  most.  If  I 
were  to  call  for  a  reward  (which  I  have  never  done),  it  should  be  for 
those  in  which,  for  fourteen  years  without  intermission,  I  showed  the 
most  industry  and  had  the  least  success  ;  I  mean  in  the  affairs  of 
^^^    -    India.     They  are  those  on  which  I  value  ;nyself  the  most ;  most  for 


.j^fi-^c^ 


EDMUND   BURKE.  219 

the  importance,  most  for  the  labor,  most  for  the  judgment,  most  for 
constancy  and  perseverance  in  the  pursuit.  Others  may  value  them 
most  for  the  intention.     In  that,  surely,  they  are  not  mistaken. 

I  was  not,  like  his  Grace  of  Bedford,  swaddled,  and  rocked,  and 
dandled  into  a  legislator  :  "  Nitor  in  adversu7n  "  is  the  motto  for 
a  man  like  me.  I  possessed  not  one  of  the  qualities,  nor  cultivated 
one  of  the  arts,  that  recommend  men  to  the  favor  and  protection  of 
the  great.  I  was  not  made  for  a  minion  or  a  tool.  As  little  did  I 
follow  the  trade  of  winning  the  hearts  by  imposing  on  the  under- 
standings of  the  people.  At  every  step  of  my  progress  in  life  (for  in 
every  step  was  I  traversed  and  opposed),  and  at  every  turnpike  I 
met,  I  was  obliged  to  show  my  passport,  and  again  and  again  to 
prove  my  sole  title  to  the  honor  of  being  useful  to  my  country,  by  a 
proof  that  I  was  not  wholly  unacquainted  with  its  laws,  and  the 
whole  system  of  its  interests  both  abroad  and  at  home.  Otherwise, 
no  rank,  no  toleration  even,  for  me.  I  had  no  arts  but  manly  arts. 
On  them  I  have  stood,  and,  please  God,  in  spite  of  the  Duke  of 
Bedford  and  the  Earl  of  Lauderdale,  to  the  last  gasp  will  I  stand. 

Had  his  Grace  condescended  to  inquire  concerning  the  person 
whom  he  has  not  thought  it  below  him  to  reproach,  he  might  have 
found,  that,  in  the  whole  course  of  my  life,  I  have  never,  on  any 
pretence  of  economy,  or  any  other  pretence,  so  much  as  in  a  single 
instance,  stood  between  any  man  and  his  reward  of  service  or  his 
encouragement  in  useful  talent  and  pursuit,  from  the  highest  of 
those  services  and  pursuits  to  the  lowest.  On  the  contrary,  I  have 
on  a  hundred  occasions  exerted  myself  with  singular  zeal  to  forward 
every  man's  even  tolerable  pretensions.  I  have  more  than  once  had 
good-natured  reprehensions  from  my  friends  for  carrying  the  matter 
to  something  bordering  on  abuse.  This  line  of  conduct,  whatever 
its  merits  might  be,  was  partly  owing  to  natural  disposition,  but  I 
think  full  as  much  to  reason  and  principle.  I  looked  on  the  con- 
sideration of  public  service  or  public  ornament  to  be  real  and  very 
justice  ;  and  I  ever  held  a  scanty  and  penurious  justice  to  partake 
of  the  nature  of  a  wrong.  I  held  it  to  be,  in  its  consequences,  the 
worst  economy  in  the  world.  In  saving  money  I  soon  can  count  up 
all  the  good  I  do  ;  but  when  by  a  cold  penury  I  blast  the  abilities  of 
a  nation,  and  stunt  the  growth  of  its  active  energies,  the  ill  I  may  do 
is  beyond  all  calculation.  Whether  it  be  too  much  or  too  little, 
whatever  I  have  done  has  been  general  and  systematic.  I  have 
never  entered  into  those  trifling,  vexatious  and  oppressive  details 
that  have  been  falsely  and  most  ridiculously  laid  to  my  charge. 


220  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 


It  may  be  new  to  his  Grace,  but  I  beg  leave  to  tell  him  that  mere 
parsimony  is  not  economy.  It  is  separable  in  theory  from  it ;  and 
in  fact  it  may  or  it  may  not  be  a  part  of  economy,  according  to  cir- 
cumstances. Expense,  and  great  expense,  may  be  an  essential  part 
in  true  economy.  If  parsimony  were  to  be  considered  as  one  of  the 
kinds  of  that  virtue,  there  is,  however,  another  and  a  higher  economy. 
Economy  is  a  distributive  virtue,  and  consists,  not  in  saving,  but  in 
selection.  Parsimony  requires  no  providence,  no  sagacity,  no  pow- 
ers of  combination,  no  comparison,  no  judgment.  Mere  instinct, 
and  that  not  an  instinct  of  the  noblest  kind,  may  produce  this  false 
economy  in  perfection.  The  other  economy  has  larger  views.  It 
demands  a  discriminating  judgment,  and  a  firm,  sagacious  mind.  It 
shuts  one  door  to  impudent  importunity,  only  to  open  another,  and  a 
wider,  to  unpresuming  merit.  If  none  but  meritorious  service  or 
real  talent  were  to  be  rewarded,  this  nation  has  not  wanted,  and  this 
nation  will  not  want,  the  means  of  rewarding  all  the  service  it  ever 
will  receive,  and  encouraging  all  the  merit  it  ever  will  produce.  No 
state,  since  the  foundation  of  society,  has  been  impoverished  by  that 
species  of  profusion.  Had  the  economy  of  selection  and  proportion 
been  at  all  times  observed,  we  should  not  now  have  had  an  over- 
grown Duke  of  Bedford,  to  oppress  the  industry  of  humble  men,  and 
to  limit,  by  the  standard  of  his  own  conceptions,  the  justice,  the 
bounty,  or,  if  he  pleases,  the  charity  of  the  crown. 

His  Grace  may  think  as  meanly  as  he  will  of  my  deserts  in  the  far 
greater  part  of  my  conduct  in  life.  It  is  free  for  him  to  do  so. 
There  will  always  be  some  difference  of  opinion  in  the  value  of 
political  services.  But  there  is  one  merit  of  mine  which  he,  of  all 
men  living,  ought  to  be  the  last  to  call  in  question.  I  have  sup- 
ported with  very  great  zeal,  and  I  am  told  with  some  degree  of  suc- 
cess, those  opinions,  or,  if  his  grace  likes  another  expression  better, 
those  old  prejudices,  which  buoy  up  the  ponderous  mass  of  his 
nobility,  wealth,  and  titles.  I  have  omitted  no  exertion  to  prevent 
him  and  them  from  sinking  to  that  level  to  which  the  meretricious 
French  faction  his  Grace  at  least  coquets  with  omit  no  exertion  to 
reduce  both.  I  have  done  all  I  could  to  discountenance  their 
inquiries  into  the  fortunes  of  those  who  hold  large  portions  of  wealth 
without  any  apparent  merit  of  their  own.  I  have  strained  every 
nerve  to  keep  the  Duke  of  Bedford  in  that  situation  which  alone 
makes  him  my  superior.  Your  lordship  has  been  a  witness  of  the 
use  he  makes  of  that  preeminence. 


EDMUND   BURKE.  221 

The  Duke  of  Bedford  conceives  that  he  is  obhged  to  call  the  atten- 
tion of  the  House  of  Peers  to  his  Majesty's  grant  to  me,  which  he 
considers  as  excessive  and  out  of  all  bounds. 

I  know  not  how  it  has  happened,  but  it  really  seems,  that,  whilst 
his  Grace  was  meditating  his  well-considered  censure  upon  me,  he 
fell  into  a  sort  of  sleep.  Homer  nods,  and  the  Duke  of  Bedford  may 
dream ;  and  as  dreams  (even  his  golden  dreams)  are  apt  to  be  ill- 
pieced  and  incongruously  put  together,  his  Grace  preserved  his  idea 
of  reproach  to  ine^  but  took  the  subject-matter  from  the  crown  grants 
to  his  own  family.  This  is  "  the  stuff  of  which  his  dreams  are 
made."  In  that  way  of  putting  things  together  his  Grace  is  perfectly 
in  the  right.  The  grants  to  the  house  of  Russell  were  so  enormous 
as  not  only  to  outrage  economy,  but  even  to  stagger  credibility.  The 
Duke  of  Bedford  is  the  leviathan  among  all  the  creatures  of  the 
crown.  He  tumbles  about  his  unwieldy  bulk,  he  plays  and  frolics  in 
the  ocean  of  the  royal  bounty.  Huge  as  he  is,  and  whilst  "  he  lies 
floating  many  a  rood,"  he  is  still  a  creature.  His  ribs,  his  fins,  his 
whalebone,  his  blubber,  the  very  spiracles  through  which  he  spouts 
a  torrent  of  brine  against  his  origin,  and  covers  me  all  over  with  the 
spray,  everything  of  him  and  about  him  is  from  the  throne.  Is  it  for 
him  to  question  the  dispensation  of  the  royal  favor .? 

I  really  am  at  loss  to  draw  any  sort  of  parallel  between  the  public 
merits  of  his  Grace,  by  which  he  justifies  the  grants  he  holds,  and 
these  services  of  mine,  on  the  favorable  construction  of  which  I  have 
obtained  what  his  Grace  so  much  disapproves.  In  private  Hfe,  I 
have  not  at  all  the  honor  of  acquaintance  with  the  noble  Duke  ;  but 
I  ought  to  presume,  —  and  it  costs  me  nothing  to  do  so,  —  that  he 
abundantly  deserves  the  esteem  and  love  of  all  who  live  with  him. 
But  as  to  public  service,  why,  truly,  it  would  not  be  more  ridiculous 
for  me  to  compare  myself,  in  rank,  in  fortune,  in  splendid  descent,  in 
youth,  strength,  or  figure,  with  the  Duke  of  Bedford,  than  to  make  a 
parallel  between  his  services  and  my  attempts  to  be  useful  to  my 
country.  It  would  not  be  gross  adulation,  but  uncivil  irony,  to  say 
that  he  has  any  public  merit  of  his  own  to  keep  alive  the  idea  of  the 
services  by  which  his  vast  landed  pensions  were  obtained.  My  merits, 
whatever  they  are,  are  original  and  personal :  his  are  derivative.  It 
is  his  ancestor,  the  original  pensioner,  that  has  laid  up  this  in- 
exhaustible fund  of  merit  which  makes  his  Grace  so  very  delicate 
and  exceptions  about  the  merit  of  all  other  grantees  of  the  crown. 
Had  he  permitted  me  to  remain  in  quiet,  I  should  liave  said,  "  'Tis 
his  estate  :  that's  enough.     It  is  his  by  law  :  what  have  I  to  do  with 


222  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

it  or  its  history  ?  "  He  would  naturally  have  said,  on  his  side,  "  'Tis 
this  man's  fortune.  He  is  as  good  now  as  my  ancestor  was  two 
hundred  and  fifty  years  ago.  I  am  a  young  man  with  very  old  pen- 
sions ;  he  is  an  old  man  with  very  young  pensions  —  that's  all." 

The  first  peer  of  the  name,  the  first  purchaser  of  the  grants,  was 
a  Mr.  Russell,  a  person  of  an  ancient  gentleman's  family,  raised  by 
being  a  minion  of  Henry  the  Eighth.  As  there  generally  is  some 
resemblance  of  character  to  create  these  relations,  the  favorite  was 
in  all  likelihood  much  such  another  as  his  master.  The  first  of 
those  immoderate  grants  was  not  taken  from  the  ancient  demesne  of 
the  crown,  but  from  the  recent  confiscation  of  the  ancient  nobility  of 
the  land.  The  lion,  having  sucked  .the  blood  of  his  prey,  threw  the 
offal  carcass  to  the  jackal  in  waiting.  Having  tasted  once  the  food 
of  confiscation,  the  favorites  became  fierce  and  ravenous.  This 
worthy  favorite's  first  grant  was  from  the  lay  nobility.  The  second, 
infinitely  improving  on  the  enormity  of  the  first,  was  from  the 
plunder  of  the  church.  In  truth,  his  Grace  is  somewhat  excusable 
for  his  dislike  to  a  grant  like  mine,  not  only  in  its  quantity,  but  in  its 
kind,  so  different  from  his  own. 

Mine  was  from  a  mild  and  benevolent  sovereign ;  his  from  Henry 
the  Eighth. 

Mine  had  not  its  fund  in  the  murder  of  any  innocent  person  of 
illustrious  rank,  or  in  the  pillage  of  any  body  of  unoffending  men. 
His  grants  were  from  the  aggregate  and  consolidated  funds  of  judg- 
ments iniquitously  legal,  and  from  possessions  voluntarily  sur- 
rendered by  the  lawful  proprietors  with  the  gibbet  at  their  door. 

The  merit  of  the  grantee  whom  he  derives  from  was  that  of  being 
a  prompt  and  greedy  instrument  of  a  levelling  tyrant,  who  op- 
pressed all  descriptions  of  his  people,  but  who  fell  with  particular 
fury  on  everything  that  was  great  and  noble.  Mine  has  been  in 
endeavoring  to  screen  every  man,  in  every  class,  from  oppression, 
and  particularly  in  defending  the  high  and  eminent,  who,  in  the  bad 
times  of  confiscating  princes,  confiscating  chief  governors,  or  con- 
fiscatingVjydemagogues,  are  the  most  exposed  to  jealousy,  avarice, 
and  envy. 

The  merit  of  the  original  grantee  of  his  Grace's  pensions  was  in 
giving  his  hand  to  the  work,  and  partaking  the  spoil,  with  a  prince 
who  plundered  a  part  of  the  national  church  of  his  time  and  country. 
Mine  was  in  defending  the  whole  of  the  national  church  of  my  own 
time  and  my  own  country,  and  the  whole  of  the  national  churches  of 


EDMUND   BURKE.  223 

all  countries,  from  the  principles  and  the  examples  which  lead  to 
ecclesiastical  pillage,  thence  to  a  contempt  of  all  prescripliYe  titles, 
thence  to  the  pillage  of  all  property,  and  thence  to  universal 
desolation. 

The  merit  of  the  origin  of  his  Grace's  fortune  was  in  being  a 
favorite  and  chief  adviser  to  a  prince  who  left  no  liberty  to  their 
native  country.  My  endeavor  was  to  obtain  liberty  for  the  municipal 
country  in  which  I  was  born,  and  for  all  descriptions  and  denomina- 
tions in  it.  Mine  was  to  support  with  unrelaxing  vigilance  every 
right,  every  privilege,  every  franchise,  in  this  my  adopted,  my  dearer, 
and  more  comprehensive  country ;  and  not  only  to  preserve  those 
rights  in  this  chief  seat  of  empire,  but  in  every  nation,  in  everj- 
land,  in  every  climate,  language,  and  religion,  in  the  vast  domain 
that  still  is  under  the  protection,  and  the  larger  that  was  once  under 
the  protection,  of  the  British  crown,    c  v 

His  founder's  merits  were,  by  arts  in  which  he  served  his  master 
and  made  his  fortune,  to  bring  poverty,  wretchedness,  and  depopula- 
tion on  his  country.  Mine  were  under  a  benevolent  prince,  in 
promoting  the  commerce,  manufactures,  and  agriculture  of  his  king- 
dom, —  in  which  his  Majesty  shows  an  eminent  example,  who  even 
in  his  amusements  is  a  patriot,  and  in  hours  of  leisure  an  improver 
of  his  native  soil. 

His  founder's  merit  was  the  merit  of  a  gentleman  raised  by  the 
arts  of  a  court  and  the  protection  of  a  Wolsey  to  the  eminence  of  a 
great  and  potent  lord.  His  merit  in  that  eminence  was,  by  instigating 
a  tyrant  to  injustice,  to  provoke  a  people  to  rebellion.  My  merit 
was,  to  awaken  the  sober  part  of  the  country,  that  they  might  put 
themselves  on  their  guard  against  any  one  potent  lord,  or  any 
greater  number  of  potent  lords,  or  any  combination  of  great  leading 
men  of  any  sort,  if  ever  they  should  attempt  to  proceed  in  the  same 
courses,  but  in  the  reverse  order, — that  is,  by  instigating  a  cor- 
rupted populace  to  rebellion,  and,  through  that  rebellion,  introducing 
a  tyranny  yet  worse  than  the  tyranny  which  his  Grace's  ancestor 
supported,  and  of  which  he  profited  in  the  manner  we  behold  in  the 
despotism  of  Henry  the  Eighth.    , /^  ■/',;:  v^rt- 

Thus  stands  the  account  of  the  comparative  merits  of  the  crown 
grants  which  compose  the  Duke  of  Bedford's  fortune  as  balanced 
against  mine.  In  the  name  of  common  sense,  why  should  the  Duke 
of  Bedford  think  that  none  but  of  the  House  of  Russell  are  entitled 
to  the  favor  of  the  crown.  Why  should  he  imagine  that  no  king  of 
England  has  been  capable  of  judging  of  merit  but  King  Henry  the 


224  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

Eighth  ?  Indeed,  he  will  pardon  me,  he  is  a  little  mistaken  :  all 
virtue  did  not  end  in  the  first  Earl  of  Bedford  ;  all  discernment  did 
not  lose  its  vision  when  his  creator  closed  his  eyes.  Let  him  remit 
his  rigor  on  the  disproportion  between  merit  and  reward  in  others, 
and  they  will  make  no  inquiry  kito  the  origin  of  his  fortune.  They 
will  regard  with  much  more  satisfaction,  as  he  will  contemplate  with 
infinitely  more  advantage,  whatever  in  his  pedigree  has  been  dul- 
cified by  an  exposure  to  the  influence  of  heaven  in  a  long  flow  of 
generations  from  the  hard,  acidulous,  metallic  tincture  of  the  spring. 
It  is  little  to  be  doubted  that  several  of  his  forefathers  in  that  long 
series  have  degenerated  into  honor  and  virtue. 

Had  it  pleased  God  to  continue  to  me  the  hopes  of  succession,  I 
should  have  been,  according  to  my  mediocrity  and  the  mediocrity  of 
the  age  I  live  in,  a  sort  of  founder  of  a  family  :  I  should  have  left 
a  son,  who,  in  all  the  points  in  which  personal  merit  can  be  viewed, 
in  science,  in  erudition,  in  genius,  in  taste,  in  honor,  in  generosity, 
in  humanity,  in  every  liberal  sentiment  and  every  liberal  accomplish- 
ment, would  not  have  shown  himself  inferior  to  the  Duke  of  Bedford, 
or  to  any  of  those  whom  he  traces  in  his  line.  His  Grace  very  soon 
would  have  wanted  all  plausibility  in  his  attack  upon  that  provision 
which  belonged  more  to  mine  than  to  me.  He  would  soon  have 
supplied  every  deficiency,  and  symmetrized  every  disproportion.  It 
would  not  have  been  for  that  successor  to  resort  to  any  stagnant, 
wasting  reservoir  of  merit  in' me,  or  in  any  ancestry.  He  had  in 
himself  a  salieiM,  living  spring  of  generous  and  manly  action. 
Every  day  he  lived  he  would  have  repurchased  the  bounty  of  the 
crown,  and  ten  times  more,  if  ten  times  more  he  had  received.  He 
was  made  a  public  creature,,  and  had  no  enjoyment  whatever  but  in 
the  performance  of  some  duty.  At  this  exigent  moment  the  loss  of 
a  finished  man  is  not  easily  supplied.      '^^^y^S:  \  . 

But  a  Disposer  whose  power  we  are  little  able  to  resist,  and 
whose  wisdom  it  behooves  us  not  at  all  to  dispute,  has  ordained  it  in 
another  manner,  and  (whatever  my  querulous  weakness  might  sug- 
gest) a  far  better.  The  storm  has  gone  over  me  ;  and  I  lie  like  one 
of  those  old  oaks  which  the  late  hurricane  has  scattered  about  me. 
I  am  stripped  of  all  my  honors,  I  am  torn  up  by  the  roots,  and  lie 
prostrate  on  the  earth.  There,  and  prostrate  there,  I  most  un- 
feignedly  recognize  the  divine  justice,  and  in  some  degree  submit  to 
it.  But  whilst  I  humble  myself  before  God,  I  do  not  know  that  it  is 
forbidden  to  repel  the  attacks  of  unjust  and  inconsiderate  men.    The 


EDMUND   BURKE  225 

patience  of  Job  is  proverbial.  After  some  of  the  convulsive  strug- 
gles of  our  irritable  nature,  he  submitted  himself,  and  repented  in 
dust  and  ashes.  But  even  so  I  do  not  find  him  blamed  for  rep- 
rehending, and  with  a  considerable  degree  of  verbal  asperity,  those 
ill-natured  neighbors  of  his  who  visited  his  dunghill  to  read  moral, 
political,  and  economical  lectures  on  his  misery.  I  am  alone.  I 
have  none  to  meet  my  enemies  in  the  gate.  Indeed,  my  lord,  I 
greatly  deceive  myself  if  in  this  hard  season  I  would  give  a  peck  of 
refuse  wheat  for  all  that  is  called  fame  and  honor  in  the  world.  This 
is  the  appetite  but  of  a  few.  It  is  a  luxury,  it  is  a  privilege,  it  is  an 
indulgence  for  those  who  are  at  their  ease.  But  we  are  all  of  us 
made  to  shun  disgrace,  as  we  are  made  to  shrink  from  pain,  and 
poverty,  and  disease.  It  is  an  instinct ;  and  under  the  direction  of 
reason,  instinct  is  always  in  the  right.  I  live  in  an  inverted  order. 
They  who  ought  to  have  succeeded  me  are  gone  before  me.  They 
who  should  have  been  to  me  as  posterity  are  in  the  place  of  an- 
cestors. I  owe  to  the  dearest  relation  (which  ever  must  subsist  in 
memory)  that  act  of  piety  which  he  would  have  performed  to  me  :  I 
owe  it  to  him  to  show  that  he  was  not  descended,  as  the  Duke  of 
Bedford  would  have  it,  from  an  unworthy  parent. 

The  crown  has  considered  me  after  long  service  r  the  crown  has 
paid  the  Duke  of  Bedford  by  advance.  He  has  had  a  long  credit 
for  any  service  which  he  may  perform  hereafter.  He  is  secure,  and 
long  may  he  be  secure,  in  his  advance,  whether  he  performs  any  ser- 
vices or  not.  But  let  him  take  care  how  he  endangers  the  safety  of 
that  Constitution  which  secures  his  own  utihty  or  his  own  insignifi- 
cance, or  how  he  discourages  those  who  take  up  even  puny  arms  to 
defend  an  order  of  things  which,  like  the  sun  of  heaven,  shines 
alike  on  the  useful  and  the  worthless.  His  grants  are  ingrafted  on 
the  public  law  of  Europe,  covered  with  the  awful  hoar  of  innumera- 
ble ages.  They  are  guarded  by  the  sacred  rules  of  prescription  - 
found  in  that  full  treasury  of  jurisprudence  from  which  the  jejjine-  i^a^^^w-  / 
ness  and  penury  of  our  municipal  law  has  by  degrees  been  enriched 
anH"  strengthened.  This  prescription  I  had  my  share — a  very  full 
share  —  in  bringing  to  its  perfection.  The  Duke  of  Bedford  will  ^ 
stand  as  long  as  prescriptive  law  endures — as  long  as  the  greai, 
stable  laws  of  property,  common  to  us  with  all  civilized  r.acions,  are 
kept  in  their  integrity,  and  without  the  smallest-  ixuermixture  of  the 
laws,  maxims,  principles,  or  preceden^^c  ot  the  grand  Re-^'-cIuilon. 
They  are  secure  against  all  change  s  but  one.  The  whole  Revolu- 
tionary system,  institutes,   digest,   coae,'^ovels>\  text,WosSj)  com- 


226  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

ment,  are  not  only  not  the  same,  but  they  are  the  very  reverse,  and 
the  reverse  fundamentally,  of  all  the  laws  on  which  civil  life  has 
hitherto  been  upheld  in  all  the  governments  of  the  world.  The 
learned  professors  of  the  rights  of  man  regard  prescription  not  as  a 
title  to  bar  all  claim  set  up  against  old  possession,  but  they  look  on 
prescription  as  itself  a  bar  against  the  possessor  and  proprietor. 
They  hold  an  immemorial  possession  to  be  no  more  than  a  long- 
continued,  and  therefore  an  aggravated  injustice. 

Such  are  their  ideas,  such  thei7'  religion,  and  such  their  law.  But 
as  to  our  country,  and  our  race,  as  long  as  the  well-compacted  struc- 
ture of  our  church  and  state,  the  sanctuary,  the  holy  of  holies  of 
that  ancient  law,  defended  by  reverence,  defended  by  power,  a  for- 
tress at  once  and  a  temple,  shall  stand  inviolate  on  the  brow  of  the 
British  sion  —  as  long  as  the  British  monarchy,  not  more  limited 
than  fenced  by  the  orders  of  the  state,  shall,  like  the  proud'Keep  of 
Windsor)  rising  in  the  majesty  of  proportion,  and  girt  with  the  double 
belt  of  its  kindred  and  coeval  towers  —  as  long  as  this  awful  struc- 
ture shall  oversee  and  guard  the  subjected  land,  so  long  the  mounds 
and  dikes  of  the  low,  fat,  Bedford  level  will  have  nothing  to  fear 
from  all  the  pickaxes  of  all  the  levellers  of  France.  As  long  as  our 
sovereign  lord  the  king,  and  his  faithful  subjects,  the  lords  and  com- 
mons of  this  realm,  —  the  triple  cord  which  no  man  can  break,  — 
the  solemn,  sworn,  constitutional  frank-pledge  of  this  nation,  the 
firm  guarantees  of  each  other's  being  and  each  other's  rights,  the 
joint  and  several  securities,  each  in  its  place  and  order,  for  every 
kind  and  every  quality  of  property  and  of  dignity,  — as  long  as  these 
endure,  so  long  the  Duke  of  Bedford  is  safe,  and  we  are  all  safe  to- 
gether, the  high  from  the  blights  of  envy  and  the  spoliations  of 
rapacity,  the  low  from  the  iron  hand  of  oppression  and  the  insolent 
spurn  of  contempt.     Amen  !  and  so  be  it,  and  so  it  will  be,  — 

Dum  domus  j^neae  Capitoli  immobile  saxiim  • 

Accolet,  imperiumque  pater  Romanus  habebit.  * 

But  if  the  rude  inroad  of  Gallic  tumult,  with  its  sophistical  rights  of 
man  to  falsify  the  account,  and  its  sword  as  a  make-weight  to  throw 
into  the  scale,  shall  be  introduced  into  our  city  by  a  misguided  popu- 
lace, set  on  by  proud,  great  men,  themselves  blinded  and  intoxicated 
by  a  frantic  ambition,  we  shall  all  of  us  perish  and  be  ovei-whelmed  in 
a  common  ruin.  If  a  great  storm  blow  on  our  coast,  it  will  cast  the 
whales  on  the  strand,  as  well  as  the  periwinkles.  His  Grace  will  not 
survive  the  poor  grantee  he  despises  —  no,  not  for  a  twelvemonth.  If 
the  great  look  for  safety  in  the  services  they  render  to  this  Gallic  cause, 

*  See  Appendix. 


EDMUND   BURKE.  22/ 

it  is  to  be  foolish  even  above  the  weight  of  privilege  allowed  to  wealth. 
If  his  Grace  be  one  of  those  whom  they  endeavor  to  proselytize,  he 
ought  to  be  aware  of  the  character  of  the  sect  whose  doctrines  he  is 
invited  to  embrace.  With  them  insurrection  is  the  most  sacred  of 
revolutionary  duties  to  the  state.  Ingratitude  to  benefactors  is  the 
first  of  revolutionary  virtues.  Ingratitude  is,  indeed,  their  four  car- 
dinal virtues  compacted  and  amalgamated  into  one  ;  and  he  will  find 
it  in  everything  that  has  happened  since  the  commencement  of  the 
philosophic  Revolution  to  this  hour.  If  he  pleads  the  merit  of  hav- 
ing performed  the  duty  of  insurrection  against  the  order  he  lives  in, 
—  God  forbid  he  ever  should  !  —  the  merit  of  others  will  be  to  per- 
form the  duty  of  insurrection  against  him.  If  he  pleads  —  again 
God  forbid  he  should !  and  I  do  not  suspect  he  will  —  his  ingrati- 
tude to  the  crown  for  its  creation  of  his  family,  others  will  plead 
their  right  and  duty  to  pay  him  in  kind.  They  will  laugh,  indeed 
they  will  laugh,  at  his  parchment  and  his  wax.  His  deeds  will  be 
drawn  out  with  the  rest  of  the  lumber  of  his  evidence-room,  and 
burnt  to  the  tune  of  Ca  ira  in  the  courts  of  Bedford  (then  Equality) 
House. 

I  assure  his  Grace,  that  if  I  state  to  him  the  designs  of  his  ene- 
mies in  a  manner  which  may  appear  to  him  ludicrous  and  impossi- 
ble, I  tell  him  nothing  that  has  not  exactly  happened,  point  by  point, 
but  twenty-four  miles  from  our  own  shore.  I  assure  him  that  the 
Frenchified  faction,  more  encouraged  than  others  are  warned  by 
what  has  happened  in  France,  look  at  him  and  his  landed  posses- 
sions as  an  object  at  once  of  curiosity  and  rapacity.  He  is  made 
for  them  in  every  part  of  their  double  character.  As  robbers,  to 
them  he  is  a  noble  booty;  as  speculatists,  he  is  a  glorious  subject 
for  their  experimental  philosophy.  He  affords  matter  for  an  exten- 
sive analysis  in  all  the  branches  of  their  science,  geometrical,  phys- 
ical, civil,  and  political. 

These  philosophers  are  fanatics.  Independent  of  any  interest, 
which,  if  it  operated  alone,  would  make  them  much  more  tractable, 
they  are  carried  with  such  a  headlong  rage  towards  every  desperate 
trial,  that  they  would  sacrifice  the  whole  human  race  to  the  slightest 
of  their  experiments.  I  am  better  able  to  enter  into  the  character 
of  this  description  of  men  than  the  noble  Duke  can  be.  I  have 
hved  long  and  variously  in  the  world.  Without  any  considerable 
pretensions  to  literature  in  myself,  I  have  aspired  to  the  love  of  let- 
ters.    I   have  lived  for  a  great  many  years  in  habitudes  with  those 


i28  HAND-BOOK    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

who  professed  them.  1  can  form  a  tolerable  estimate  of  what  is 
likely  to  happen  from  a  character  chiefly  dependent  for  fame  and 
fortune  on  knowledge  and  talent,  as  well  in  its  morbid  and  perverted 
state  as  in  that  which  is  sound  and  natural.  Naturally  men  so 
formed  and  finished  are  the  first  gifts  of  Providence  to  the  world. 
But  when  they  have  once  thrown  off  the  fear  of  God,  which  was  in 
all  ages  too  often  the  case,  and  the  fear  of  man,  which  is  now  the 
case,  and  when  in  that  state  they  come  to  understand  one  another, 
and  to  act  in  corps,  a  more  dreadful  calamity  cannot  arise  out  of 
hell  to  scourge  mankind.  Nothing  can  be  conceived  more  hard 
than  the  heart  of  a  thorough-bred  metaphysician.  It  comes  nearer 
to  the  cold  malignity  of  a  wicked  spirit  than  to  the  frailty  and  pas- 
sion of  a  man.  It  is  likje^  that  of  the  Prmciple  of  Evil  himself,  in- 
corporeal, pure,  unmixed, (dephlegmated,'^  defecated  evil.  It  is  no 
easy  operation  to  eradicate  humanity  from  the  human  breast.  What 
Shakespeare  calls  the  "  compunctious  visitings  of  nature  "  will 
sometimes  knock  at  their  hearts,  and  protest  against  their  murder- 
ous speculations.  But  they  have  a  means  of  compounding  with 
their  nature.  Their  humanity  is  not  dissolved  :  they  only  give  it  a 
long  prorogation.  They  are  ready  to  declare  that  they  do  not  think 
two  thousand  years  too  long  a  period  for  the  good  that  they  pursue. 
It  is  remarkable  that  they  never  see  any  way  to  their  projected  good 
but  by  the  road  of  some  evil.  Their  imagination  is  not  fatigued 
with  the  contemplation  of  human  suffering  through  the  wild  waste 
of  centuries  added  to  centuries  of  misery  and  desolation.  Their 
humanity  is  at  their  horizon,  and,  like  the  horizon,  it  always  flies 
before  them.  The  geometricians  and  the  chemists  bring  —  the  one 
from  the  dry  bones  of  their  diagrams,  and  the  other*from  the  soot 
of  their  furnaces  —  dispositions  that  make  them  worse  than  indiffer- 
ent about  those  feelings  and  habitudes  which  are  the  supports  of 
the  moral  world.  Ambition  is  come  upon  them  suddenly  ;  they  are 
intoxicated  with  it,  and  it  has  rendered  them  fearless  of  the  danger 
which  may  from  thence  arise  to  others  or  to  themselves.  These 
"philosophers  consider  men  in  their  experiments  no  more  than  they 
do  mice  in  an  air-pump,  or  in  a  recipient  of  ^mephitic  gas.  What- 
ever his  Grace  may  think  of  himself,  they  look  upon  him,  and  every- 
thing that  belongs  to  him,  with  no  more  regard  than  they  do  upon 
the  whiskers  of  that  little,  long-tailed  animal  that  has  been  long  the 
game  of  the  grave,  demure,  insidious,  spring-nailed,  velvet-pawed, 
green  -eyed  philosophers,  whether  going  upon  two  legs  or  upon  four. 
A  His    Grace's  landed  possessions   are  irresistibly  inviting  to  an 


A  ^1^  f\'>cy.'f^i^'T^\^}^^A.i 


''^^CCid^A^^tcy*-^    EDMUND   BURKE.  i^  <iV 

agrarian  experiment.  They  are  a  downright  insult  upon  th<i  rights 
of  man.  They  are  more  extensive  than  the  territory  of  many  of 
the  Grecian  republics,  and  they  are,  without  comparison,  more  fer- 
tile than  most  of  them.  There  are  now  repubhcs  in  Italy,  in  Ger- 
many, and  in  Switzerland  which  do  not  possess  anything  like  so  fair 
and  ample  a  domain.  There  is  scope  for  seven  philosophers  to  pro- 
ceed in  their  analytical  experiments  upon  Harrington's  seven  differ- 
ent forms  of  republics  in  the  acres  of  this  one  duke.  Hitherto  they 
have  been  wholly  unproductive  to  speculation,  fitted  for  nothing  but 
to  fatten  bullocks,  and  to  produce  grain  for  beer,  still  rhore  to  stupefy 
the  dull  EngUsh  understanding.  vAbbe  Sieyes  has  whole  nests  of 
pigeon-holes  full  of  constitutions  ready  made,  ticketed,  sorted,  and 
numbered,  suited  to  every  season  and  every  fancy  ;  some  with  the 
top  of  the  pattern  at  the  bottom,  and  some  with  the  bottom  at  the 
top  ;  some  plain,  some  flowered  ;  some  distinguished  for  their  sim- 
plicity, others  for  their  complexity  ;  some  of  blood  color,  some  of 
boue  de  Paris;  some  with  directories,  others  without  a  direction  ; 
some  with  councils  of  elders  and  councils  of  youngsters,  some  with- 
out any  council  at  all ;  some  where  the  electors  choose  the  repre- 
sentatives, others  where  the  representatives  choose  the  electors  ; 
some  in  long  coats,  some  in  short  cloaks  ;  some  with  pantaloons, 
some  without  breeches  ;  some  with  five-shilling  qualifications,  some 
totally  unqualified.  So  that  no  constitution-fancier  may  go  unsuited 
from  his  shop,  proxaded  he  loves  a  pattern  of  pillage,  oppression, 
arbitrary  imprisonment,  confiscation,  exile,  revolutionary  judgment, 
and  legalized,  premeditated  murder,  in  any  shapes  into  which  they 
can  be  put.  What  a  pity  it  is  that  the  progress  of  experimental  phi- 
losophy should  be  checked  by  his  Grace's  monopoly  !  Such  are 
their  sentiments,  I  assure  him  ;  such  is  their  language,  when  they 
dare  to  speak  ;  and  such  are  their  proceedings,  when  they  have  the 
means  to  act. 

-. /*'  >    y  -  '.'■'■  .^j 

Is  it  not  a  singular  phenomenon,  that,  whilst  the  J'<J!«j-^«/<7//^j? car- 
cass-butchers and  the  philosophers  of  the  shambles  are  pricking 
their  dotted  lines  upon  his  hide,  and,  like  the  print  of  the  poor  ox 
that  we  see  in  the  shop  windows  at  Charing  Cross,  alive  as  he  is, 
and  thinking  no  harm  in  the  world,  he  is  divided  into  rumps,  and 
sirloins,  and  briskets,  and  into  all  sorts  of  pieces  for  roasting,  boil- 
ing, and  stewing,  that  all  the  while  they  are  measuring  him,  his 
Grace  is  measuring  me — is  invidiously  comparing  the  bounty  of  the 
crown  with  the  deserts  of  the  defender  of  his  order,  and  in  the  same 


230  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

moment  fawning  on  those  who  have  the  knife  half  out  of  the  sheath  ? 
Poor  innocent !  — 

"  Pleased  to  the  last,  he  crops  the  flowery  food, 
^  ^   ^,       /    /  ''/  .'  And  licks  the  hand  just  raised  to  shed  his  blood." 

'  No  man  lives  too  long  who  lives  to  do  with  spirit  and  suffer  with 
resignation  what  Providence  pleases  to  command  or  inflict ;  but, 
indeed,  they  are  sharp  incommodities  which  beset  old  age.  It  was 
but  the  other  day,  that,  on  putting  in  order  some  things  which  had 
been  brought  here,  on  my  taking  leave  of  London  forever,  I  looked 
over  a  number  of  fine  portraits,  most  of  them  of  persons  now  dead, 
but  whose  society,  in  my  better  days,  made  this  a  proud  and  happy 
place.  Amongst  these  was  the  picture  of  Lorli^  Keppel.  It  was 
painted  by  an^  artist  worthy  of  the  subject,  the  excellent  friend  of 
that  excellent  man  from  their  earliest  youth,  and  a  common  friend 
of  us  both,  with  whom  we  lived  for  many  years  without  a  moment 
of  coldness,  of  peevishness,  of  jealousy,  or  of  jar,  to  the  day  of  our 
final  separation. 

Pardon,  my  lord,  the  feeble  garrulity  of  age,  which  loves  to  diffuse 
itself  in  discourse  of  the  departed  great.  At  my  years,  we  live  in 
retrospect  alone,  and,  wholly  unfitted  for  the  society  of  vigorous 
life,  we  enjoy  —  the  best  balm  to  all  wounds  —  the  consolation  of 
friendship,  in  those  only  whom  we  have  lost  forever.  Feeling  the 
loss  of  Lord  Keppel  at  all  times,  at  no  time  did  I  feel  it  so  much  as 
on  the  first  day  when  I  was  attacked  in  the  House  of  Lords. 

Had  he  lived,  that  reverend  form  would  have  risen  in  its  place, 
and,  with  a  mild,  parental  reprehension  to  his  nephew,  the  Duke  of 
Bedford,  he  would  have  told  him  that  the  favor  of  that  gracious 
prince  who  had  honored  his  virtues  with  the  government  of  the  navy 
of  Great  Britain,  and  with  a  seat  in  the  hereditary  great  council  of 
his  kingdom,  was  not  undeservedly  shown  to  the  friend  of  the  best 
portion  of  his  life,  and  his  faithful  companion  and  counsellor  under 
his  rudest  trials.  He  would  have  told  him,  that,  to  whomever  else 
these  reproaches  might  be  becoming,  they  were  not  decorous  in  his 
near  kindred.  He  would  have  told  him,  that  when  men  in  that  rank 
lose  decorum,  they  lose  everything. 


Lord  Keppel  had  two  countries,  one  of  descent,  and  one  of  birth. 
Their  interest  and  their  glory  are  the  same,  and  his  mind  was  capa- 
cious of  both.  His  family  was  noble,  and  it  was  Dutch  ;  that  is,  he 
was  of  the  oldest  and  purest  nobility  that  Europe  can  boast,  among 

,  ■  '   ''  '^' 


EDMUND   BURKE.  2^1 

a  people  renowned  above  all  others  for  love  of  their  native  land. 
Though  it  was  never  shown  in  insult  to  any  human  being,  Lord  Kep- 
pel  was  something  high.  It  was  a  wild  stock  of  pride,  on  which  the 
tenderest  of  all  hearts  had  grafted  the  milder  virtues.  He  valued 
ancient  nobility ;  and  he  was  not  disinclined  to  augment  it  with  new 
honors.  He  valued  the  old  nobility  and  the  new,  not  as  an  excuse 
for  inglorious  sloth,  but  as  an  incitement  to  virtuous  activity. 

Looking  to  his  Batavian  descent,  how  could  he  bear  to  behold  his 
kindred,  the  descendants  of  the  brave  nobility  of  Holland,  whose 
blood,  prodigally  poured  out,  had,  more  than  all  the  canals,  meres, 
and  inundations  of  their  country,  protected  their  independence,  to 
behold  them  bowed  in  the  basest  servitude  to  the  basest  and  vilest 
of  the  human  race  —  in  servitude  to  those  who  in  no  respect  were 
superior  in  dignity,  or  could  aspire  to  a  better  place  than  that  of 
hangman  to  the  tyrants  to  whose  sceptred  pride  they  had  opposed 
an  elevation  of  soul  that  surmounted  and  overiDowered  the  loftiness 
of  Castile,  the  haughtiness  of  Austria,  snd  the  overbearing  arro- 
gance of  France  ! 

Would  Keppel  have  borne  to  see  the  ruin  of  the  virtuous  patri- 
cians, that  happy  union  of  the  noble  and  the  burgher,  who,  with 
signal  prudence  and  integrity,  had  long  governed  the  cities  of  the 
confederate  republic,  the  cherishing  fathers  of  their  country,  who,  de- 
nying commerce  to  themselves,  made  it  flourish  in  a  manner  unex- 
ampled under  their  protection  ?  Could  Keppel  have  borne  that  a 
vile  faction  should  totally  destroy  this  harmonious  construction  in 
favor  of  a  robbing  democracy  founded  on  the  spurious  rights  of 
man  ? 

He  was  no  great  clerk,  but  he  was  perfectly  well  versed  in  the  in- 
terests of  Europe  ;  and  he  could  not  have  heard  with  patience  that 
the  country  of  Grotius,  the  cradle  of  the  law  of  nations,  and  one  of 
the  richest  repositories  of  all  law,  should  be  taught  a  new  code  by 
the  ignorant  flippancy  of  Thomas  Paine,  the  presumptuous  foppery 
of  La  Fayette,  with  his  stolen  rights  of  man  in  his  hand,  the  wild, 
profligate  intrigue  and  turbulency  of  Marat,  and  the  impious  sophis- 
try of  Condorcet  in  his  insolent  addresses  to  the  Batavian  Republic. 

Could  Keppel,  who  idolized  the  House  of  Nassau,  who  was  him- 
self given  to  England  along  with  the  blessings  of  the  British  and 
Dutch  Revolutions,  with  revolutions  of  stability,  with  revolutions 
which  consolidated  and  married  the  liberties  and  the  interests  of 


.  -<  r  ^ 


232  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

the  two  nations  forever  —  could  he  see  the  fountain  of  British  liberty 
itself  in  servitude  to  France  ?  Could  he  see  with  patience  a  Prince 
of  Orange  expelled  as  a  sort  of  diminutive  despot,  with  every  kind 
of  contumely,  from  the  country  which  that  family  of  deliverers  had 
so  often  rescued  from  slavery,  and  obliged  to  live  in  exile  in  another 
country,  which  owes  its  liberty  to  his  house  ? 

But,  above  all,  what  would  he  have  said  if  he  had  heard  it  made  a 
matter  of  accusation  against  me  by  his  nephew,  the  Duke  of  Bed- 
ford, that  I  was  the,  author  of  the  war  ?»  OHad  I  a  mind  to  keep  that 
high  distinction  to  myself  (as  from  pride  I  might,  but  from  justice  I 
dare  not),  he  would  have  snatched  his  share  of  it  from  my  hand,  and 
held  it  with  the  grasp  of  a  dying  convulsion  to  his  end. 

It  would  be  a  most  arrogant  presumption  in  me  to  assume  to  my- 
self the  glory  of  what  belongs  to  his  Majesty,  and  to  his  ministers, 
and  to  his  parliament,  and  to  the  far  greater  majority  of  his  faithful 
people  ;  but,  had  I  stood  alone  to  counsel,  and  that  all  were  deter- 
mined to  be  guided  by  my  advice,  and  to  follow  it  implicitly,  then  I 
should  have  been  the  sole  author  of  a  war.  But  it  should  have  been 
a  war  on  my  ideas  and  my  principles.  However,  let  his  Grace  think 
as  he  may  of  my  demerits  with  regard  to  the  war  with  Regicide,  he 
will  find  my  guilt  confined  to  that  alone.  He  never  shall,  with  the 
smallest  color  of  reason,  accuse  me  of  being  the  author  of  a  peace 
with  Regicide.  But  that  is  high  matter,  and  ought  not  to  be  mixed 
with  anything  of  so  little  moment  as  what  may  belong  to  me,  or  even 
to  the  Duke  of  Bedford. 

I  have  the  honor  to  be,  &c., 

Edmund  Burke. 

WILLIAM   COWPER. 

William  Cowper  was  bom  in  1731,  the  son  of  a  clergyman  in  Hertfordshire,  and  con- 
nected by  birth  with  a  family  then  and  since  distinguished.  It  would  seem  that  he  was  a 
person  of  a  mild  temper,  of  refined  and  almost  feminine  sensibilities,  an  ardent  lover  of 
nature,  and  full  of  an  unaffected  natural  piety ;  but  some  tendencies  to  insanity  appeared 
quite  early ;  these  developed  in  after  life  with  varying  intensity,  at  times  into  a  mild  mel- 
ancholy, and  again  into  utter  wretchedness  and  despair.  He  was  never  married,  but  re- 
sided for  the  greater  part  of  his  life  in  the  family  of  the  Rev.  Mr.  Unwin.  The  references 
to  Mrs.  Unwin  are  numerous  through  his  poems.  He  translated  the  Iliad  and  the  Odyssey 
into  blank  verse,  for  which  he  gained  some  reputation,  but  little  money;  but  late  in  life  he 
received  a  pension  of  three  hundred  pounds.  His  chief  original  poam,  The  Task,  has 
many  fine  passages,  as  the  extracts  here  given  show,  but  it  is  very  unequal ;  often,  when 
the  author  thought  he  was  rising  to  a  sublime  height  of  poetry,  he  was  merely  preaching 
wj^  a  remembered  fervor.     His  devotional  hymns,  considered  as  poems  solely,  are  among 


WILLIAM    COVVPER.  233 

the  best  which  any  Christian  anthology  can  show.     His  letters,  which  are  numerous,  are 
all  tinged  with  a  pervading  gloom,  but  are  delightfully  easy  and  natural  in  style. 

It  is  a  pity  that  a  mispronunciation  of  his  name  has  become  so  common  in  America,  that 
when  it  is  correctly  sounded  few  even  among  educated  people  know  who  is  meant.  A  note 
from  "  A  Fable  for  the  Critics  "  will  explain  :  — 

"  To  demonstrate  quickly  and  easily  how  per- 
versely absurd  'tis  to  sound  this  name  Cowper, 
As  people  in  general  call  him  named  super, 
I  just  add  that  he  rhymes  it  himself  with  horse- trooper." 

Cowper  died  in  his  seventieth  year,  having  been  in  a  wretched  mental  state  for  some 
years.     His  poems,  in  three  volumes,  are  included  in  the  British  Poets  before  mentioned. 

[From  The  Task.] 

For  I  have  loved  the  rural  walk  through  lanes 

Of  grassy  swath,  close  cropped  by  nibbling  sheep, 

And  skirted  thick  with  intertexture  firm 

Of  thorny  boughs  ;  have  loved  the  rural  walk 

O'er  hills,  through  valleys,  and  by  rivers'  brink, 

E'er  since  a  truant  boy  I  passed  my  bounds 

To  enjoy  a  ramble  on  the  banks  of  Thames  ; 

And  still  remember,  not  without  regret 

Of  hours  that  sorrow  since  has  much  endeared, 

How  oft,  my  slice  of  pocket  store  consumed. 

Still  hungering,  penniless,  and  far  from  home, 

I  fed  on  scarlet  hips  and  stony  haws. 

Or  blushing  crabs,  or  berries  that  emboss 

The  bramble,  black  as  jet,  or  sloes  austere. 

Hard  fare  !  but  such  as  boyish  appetite 

Disdains  not,  nor  the  palate,  undepraved 

By  culinary  arts,  unsavory  deems. 

No  Sofa  then  awaited  my  return  ; 

Nor  Sofa  then  I  needed.     Youth  repairs 

His  wasted  spirits  quickly,  by  long  toil 

Incurring  short  fatigue  ;  and,  though  our  years, 

As  life  declines,  speed  rapidly  away. 

And  not  a  year  but  pilfers  as  he  goes 

Some  youthful  grace  that  age  would  gladly  keep,  — 

A  tooth  or  auburn  lock,  and  by  degrees 

Their  length  and  color  from  the  locks  they  spare  ; 

The  elastic  spring  of  an  unwearied  foot. 

That  mounts  the  stile  with  ease,  or  leaps  the  fence ; 

That  play  of  lungs,  inhaling  and  again 

Respiring  freely  the  fresh  air,  that  makes 


234  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

Swift  pace  or  steep  ascent  no  toil  to  me,  — 
Mine  have  not  pilfered  yet  ;  nor  yet  impaired 
My  relish  of  fair  prospect ;  scenes  that  soothed 
Or  charmed  me  young,  no  longer  young,  I  find 
Still  soothing,  and  of  power  to  charm  me  still. 

Thence,  with  what  pleasure  we  have  just  discerned 
The  distant  plough,  slow  moving,  and  beside 
His  laboring  team,  that  swerved  not  from  the  track, 
The  sturdy  swain  diminished  to  a  boy  ! 
Here  Ouse,  slow  winding  through  a  level  plain 
Of  spacious  meads,  with  cattle  sprinkled  o'er. 
Conducts  the  eye  along  his  sinuous  course 
Delighted.     There,  fast  rooted  in  their  bank, 
Stand,  never  overlooked,  our  favorite  elms. 
That  screen  the  herdsman's  solitary  hut ; 
While,  far  beyond,  and  overthwart  the  stream, 
That,  as  with  molten  glass,  inlays  the  vale, 
The  sloping  land  recedes  into  the  clouds, 
Displaying  on  its  varied  side  the  grace 
Of  hedgerow  beauties  numberless,  square 'tower. 
Tall  spire,  from  which  the  sound  of  cheerful  bells 
Just  undulates  upon  the  listening  ear. 
Groves,  heaths,  and  smoking  villages  remote. 
Scenes  must  be  beautiful,  which  daily  viewed 
Please  daily,  and  whose  novelty  survives 
Long  knowledge  and  the  scrutiny  of  years  — 
Praise  justly  due  to  those  that  I  describe. 
Nor  rural  sights  alone,  but  rural  sounds. 
Exhilarate  the  spirit,  and  restore 
The  tone  of  languid  Nature.     Mighty  winds. 
That  sweep  the  skirt  of  some  far-spreading  wood 
Of  ancient  growth,  make  music  not  unlike 
The  dash  of  Ocean  on  his  winding  shore, 
And  lull  the  spirit  while  they  fill  the  mind, 
Unnumbered  branches  waving  in  the  blast, 
And  all  their  leaves  fast  fluttering,  all  at  once. 
Nor  less  composure  waits  upon  the  roar 
Of  distant  floods,  or  on  the  softer  voice 
Of  neighboring  fountain,  or  of  rills  that  slip 
Through  the  cleft  rock,  and  chiming  as  they  fall 


WILLIAM   COWPER.  235 

Upon  loose  pebbles,  lose  themselves  at  length 

\n  matted  grass,  that,  with  a  livelier  green, 

Betrays  the  secret  of  their  silent  course. 

Nature  inanimate  employs  sweet  sounds, 

But  animated  nature  sweeter  still, 

To  soothe  and  satisfy  the  human  ear. 

Ten  thousand  warblers  cheer  the  day,  and  one 

The  livelong  night ;  nor  these  alone,  whose  notes 

Nice-fingered  Art  must  emulate  in  vain, 

But  cawing  rooks,  and  kites  that  swim  sublime 

In  still-repeated  circles,  screaming  loud, 

The  jay,  the  pie,  and  e'en  the  boding  owl 

That  hails  the  rising  moon,  have  charms  for  me ; 

Sounds  inharmonious  in  themselves  and  harsh, 

Yet  heard  in  scenes  where  peace  forever  reigns. 

And  only  there,  please  highly  for  their  sake. 

O  Winter,  ruler  of  the  inverted  year, 
Thy  scattered  hair  with  sleet-like  ashes  filled, 
Thy  breath  congealed  upon  thy  lips,  thy  cheeks 
Fringed  with  a  beard  made  white  with  other  snows 
Than  those  of  age,  thy  forehead  wrapped  in  clouds, 
A  leafless  branch  thy  sceptre,  and  thy  throne 
A  sHding  car,  indebted  to  no  wheels. 
But  urged  by  storms  along  its  slippery  way, 
I  love  thee,  all  unlovely  as  thou  seem'st. 
And  dreaded  as  thou  art !     Thou  hold'st  the  sun 
A  prisoner  in  the  yet  undawning  east, 
Shortening  his  journey  between  morn  and  noon, 
And  hurrying  him,  impatient  of  his  stay, 
Down  to  the  rosy  west ;  but  kindly  still 
Compensating  his  loss  with  added  hours 
Of  social  converse  and  instructive  ease, 
And  gathering,  at  short  notice,  in  one  group 
The  family  dispersed,  and  fixing  thought. 
Not  less  dispersed  by  daylight  and  its  cares. 
I  crown  thee  king  of  intimate  delights, 
Fireside  enjoyments,  home-born  happiness. 
And  all  the  comforts  that  the  lowly  roof 
Of  undisturbed  Retirement,  and  the  hours 
Of  long,  uninterrupted  evening  know. 


236  HAND-BOOK    OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

No  rattlmg  wheels  stop  short  before  these  gates, 

No  powdered  pert,  proficient  in  the  art 

Of  sounding  an  alarm,  assaults  these  doors 

Till  the  street  rings  ;  no  stationary  steeds 

Cough  their  own  knell,  while,  heedless  of  the  sound, 

The  silent  circle  fan  themselves  and  quake; 

But  here  the  needle  plies  its  busy  task, 

The  pattern  grows,  the  weH-depicted  flower. 

Wrought  patiently  into  the  snowy  lawn. 

Unfolds  its  bosom  ;  buds,  and  leaves,  and  sprigs. 

And  curling  tendrils,  gracefully  disposed, 

Follow  the  nimble  finger  of  the  fair  — 

A  wreath  that  cannot  fade,  of  fiowers  that  blow 

With  most  success  when  all  besides  decay. 

The  poet's  or  historian's  page  by  one 

Made  vocal  for  the  amusement  of  the  rest  ; 

The  sprightly  lyre,  whose  treasure  of  sweet  sounds 

The  touch  from  many  a  trembling  chord  sh?kes  out ; 

And  the  clear  voice  symphonious,  yet  distinct, 

And  in  the  charming  strife  triumphant  still, 

Beguile  the  night,  and  set  a  keener  edge 

On  female  industry :  the  threaded  steel 

Flies  swiftly,  and  unfelt  the  task  proceeds. 

The  volume  closed,  the  customary  rites 

Of  the  last  meal  commence  —  a  Roman  meal, 

Such  as  the  mistress  of  the  world  once  found 

Delicious,  when  her  patriots  of  high  note, 

Perhaps  by  moonlight,  at  their  humble  doors. 

And  under  an  old  oak's  domestic  shade, 

Enjoyed  —  spare  feast  —  a  radish  and  an  egg. 

Discourse  ensues,  not  trivial,  yet  not  dull. 

Nor  such  as  with  a  frown  forbids  the  play 

Of  fancy,  or  proscribes  the  sound  of  mirth : 

Nor  do  we  madly,  like  an  impious  world. 

Who  deem  religion  frenzy,  and  the  God 

That  made  them  an  intruder  on  their  joys, 

Start  at  his  awful  name,  or  deem  his  praise 

A  jarring  note.     Themes  of  a  graver  tone. 

Exciting  oft  our  gratitude  and  love. 

While  we  retrace  with  Memory's  pointing  wand. 

That  calls  the  past  to  our  exact  review. 


WILLIAM   COWPER.  237 

The  dangers  we  have  'scaped,  the  broken  snare, 
The  disappointed  foe,  deliverance  found 
Unlooked  for,  Hfe  preserved,  and  peace  restored  — 
Fruits  of  omnipotent  eternal  love. 
O,  evenings  worthy  of  the  gods  !  exclaimed 
The  Sabine  bard.     O,  evenings,  I  reply, 
More  to  be  prized  and  coveted  than  yours, 
As  more  illumined,  and  with  nobler  truths, 
That  I,  and  mine,  and  those  we  love,  enjoy. 

Come,  Evening,  once  again,  season  of  peace, 
Return,  sweet  Evening,  and  continue  long ! 
Methinks  I  see  thee  in  the  streaky  west. 
With  matron  step  slow  moving,  while  the  Night 
Treads  on  thy  sweeping  train  ;  one  hand  employed 
In  letting  fall  the  curtain  of  repose 
On  bird  and  beast,  the  other  charged  for  man 
With  sweet  oblivion  of  the  cares  of  day ; 
Not  sumptuously  adorned,  nor  needing  aid. 
Like  homely-featured  Night,  of  clustering  gems  ; 
A  star  or  two,  just  twinkling  on  thy  brow. 
Suffices  thee  ;  save  that  the  moon  is  thine 
No  less  than  hers,  nor  worn  indeed  on  high 
With  ostentatious  pageantry,  but  set 
With  modest  grandeur  in  thy  purple  zone, 
Resplendent  less,  but  of  an  ampler  round. 
Come,  then,  and  thou  shalt  find  thy  votary  calm, 
Or  make  me  so.     Composure  is  thy  gift ; 
And,  whether  I  devote  thy  gentle  hours 
To  books,  to  music,  or  the  poet's  toil. 
To  weaving  nets  for  bird-alluring  fruit. 
Or  twining  silken  threads  round  ivory  reels, 
When  they  command  whom  man  was  born  to  please, 
I  slight  thee  not,  but  make  thee  welcome  still. 

/      Acquaint  thyself  with  God,  if  thou  wouldst  taste 
His  works.     Admitted  once  to  his  embrace. 
Thou  shalt  perceive  that  thou  wast  blind  before  : 
Thine  eye  shall  be  instructed,  and  thine  heart, 
Made  pure,  shall  relish  with  divine  delight. 
Till  then  unfelt,  what  hands  divine  have  wrought. 


23S  HAND-BOOK   OF  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

Brutes  graze  the  mountain-top,  with  faces  prone, 
And  eyes  intent  upon  the  scanty  herb 
It  yields  them  ;  or,  recumbent  on  its  brow, 
Ruminate,  heedless  of  the  scene  outspread 
Beneath,  beyond,  and  stretching  far  away 
From  inland  regions  to  the  distant  main. 
Man  views  it,  and  admires  ;  but  rests  content 
With  what  he  views.     The  landscape  has  his  praise, 
But  not  its  Author.     Unconcerned  who  formed 
The  Paradise  he  sees,  he  finds  it  such. 
And  such  well  pleased  to  find  it,  asks  no  more. 
Not  so  the  mind  that  has  been  touched  from  Heaven, 
And  in  the  school  of  sacred  wisdom  taught 
To  read  his  wonders,  in  whose  thought  the  world, 
Fair  as  it  is,  existed  ere  it  was. 
Nor  for  its  own  sake  merely,  but  for  His 
Much  more  who  fashioned  it,  he  gives  it  praise  — 
Praise  that  from  earth  resulting,  as  it  ought, 
To  earth's  acknowledged  Sovereign,  finds  at  once 
'         Its  only  just  proprietor  in  Him. 

The  soul  that  sees  Him,  or  receives  sublimed 
New  faculties,  or  learns  at  least  to  employ 
More  worthily  the  powers  she  owned  before. 
Discerns  in  all  things  what,  with  stupid  gaze 
Of  ignorance,  till  then  she  overlooked  — 
A  ray  of  heavenly  light,  gilding  all  forms 
Terrestrial  in  the  vast  and  the  minute  ; 
The  unambiguous  footsteps  of  the  God, 
Who  gives  its  lustre  to  an  insect's  wing. 
And  wheels  His  throne  upon  the  rolling  worlds. 
Much  conversant  with  heaven,  she  often  holds 
With  those  fair  ministers  of  light  to  man. 
That  fill  the  skies  nightly  with  silent  pomp. 
Sweet  conference  ;  inquires  what  strains  were  they 
With  which  heaven  rang,  when  every  star,  in  haste 
To  gratulate  the  new-created  earth. 
Sent  forth  a  voice,  and  all  the  sons  of  God 
Shouted  for  joy.     "  Tell  me,  ye  shining  hosts. 
That  navigate  a  sea  that  knows  no  storms, 
Beneath  a  vault  unsullied  with  a  cloud. 
If  from  your  elevation,  whence  ye  view 


WILLIAM   COWPER.  239 

Distinctly  scenes  invisible  to  man, 

And  systems  of  whose  birth  no  tidings  yet 

Have  reached  this  nether  world,  ye  spy  a  race 

Favored  as  ours  ;  transgressors  from  the  womb, 

And  hasting  to  a  grave,  yet  doomed  to  rise, 

And  to  possess  a  brighter  heaven  than  yours  ? 

As  one,  who,  long  detained  on  foreign  shores, 

Pants  to  return,  and  when  he  sees  afar 

His  country's  weather-bleached  and  battered  rocks, 

From  the  green  wave  emerging,  darts  an  eye 

Radiant  with  joy  towards  the  happy  land, 

So  I  with  animated  hopes  behold. 

And  many  an  aching  wish,  your  beamy  fires, 

That  show  like  beacons  in  the  blue  abyss, 

Ordained  to  guide  the  embodied  spirit  home 

From  toilsome  life  to  never-ending  rest. 

Love  kindles  as  I  gaze.     I  feel  desires 

That  give  assurance  of  their  own  success, 

And  that,  infused  from  heaven,  must  thither  tend." 


ON   THE   RECEIPT   OF   HIS   MOTHER'S   PICTURE. 

O  THAT  those  lips  had  language  !     Life  has  passed 
With  me  but  roughl)^  since  I  heard  thee  last. 
Those  lips  are  thine  —  thy  own  sweet  smiles  I  see, 
The  same  that  oft  in  childhood  solaced  me  ; 
Voice  only  fails,  else  how  distinct  they  say, 
"Grieve  not,  my  child  ;  chase  all  thy  fears  away  !  " 
The  meek  intelligence  of  those  dear  eyes- 
Blest  be  the  art  that  can  immortalize. 
The  art  that  baffles  time's  tyrannic  claim 
To  quench  it  —  here  shines  on  me  still  the  same. 
Faithful  remembrancer  of  one  so  dear, 

0  welcome  guest,  though  unexpected  here  ! 
Who  bidd'st  me  honor,  with  an  artless  song 
Affectionate,  a  mother  lost  so  long. 

1  will  obey,  not  willingly  alone. 

But  gladly,  as  the  precept  were  her  own  : 
And  while  that  face  renews  my  filial  grief, 
Fancy  shall  weave  a  charm  for  my  relief; 
Shall  steep  me  in  Elysian  reverie, 
A  momentary  dream,  that  thou  art  she. 


240  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

My  mother,  when  I  learned  that  thou  wast  dead, 
Say,  wast  thou  conscious  of  the  tears  I  shed  ? 
Hovered  thy  spirit  o'er  thy  sorrowing  son. 
Wretch  even  then,  Hfe's  journey  just  begun  ? 
Perhaps  thou  gav'st  me,  though  unseen,  a  kiss ; 
Perhaps  a  tear,  if  souls  can  weep  in  bhss. 
A.h,  that  maternal  smile  !  it  answers,  Yes. 
T  heard  the  bell  tolled  on  thy  burial-day, 
I  saw  the  hearse  that  bore  thee  slow  away, 
And,  turning  from  my  nursery  window,  drew 
A  long,  long  sigh,  and  wept  a  last  adieu  ! 
But  was  it  such  ?     It  was.     Where  thou  art  gone, 
Adieus  and  farewells  are  a  sound  unknown. 
May  I  but  meet  thee  on  that  peaceful  shore. 
The  parting  sound  shall  pass  my  lips  no  more  ! 
Thy  maidens,  grieved  themselves  at  my  concern, 
Oft  gave  me  promise  of  a  quick  return  : 
What  ardently  I  wished,  I  long  believed. 
And,  disappointed  still,  was  still  deceived ; 
By  disappointment  every  day  beguiled. 
Dupe  of  to-morrow  even  from  a  child. 
Thus  many  a  sad  to-morrow  came  and  went, 
Till,  all  my  stock  of  infant  sorrow  spent, 
I  learned  at  last  submission  to  my  lot ; 
But,  though  I  less  deplored  thee,  ne'er  forgot. 

And  now,  farewell.     Time  unrevoked  has  run 
His  wonted  course,  yet  what  I  wished  is  done. 
By  contemplation's  help,  not  sought  in  vain, 
I  seem  to  have  lived  my  childhood  o'er  again  : 
To  have  renewed  the  joys  that  once  were  mine, 
Without  the  sin  of  violating  thine  ; 
And,  while  the  wings  of  fancy  still  are  free, 
And  I  can  view  this  mimic  show  of  thee. 
Time  has  but  half  succeeded  in  his  theft, 
Thyself  removed,  thy  power  to  soothe  me  left 


WILLIAM   COWPER. 


241 


THE   DIVERTING   HISTORY   OF   JOHN   GILPIN, 

SHOWING  HOW  HE  WENT  FARTHER  THAN  HE  INTENDED,  AND  CAME  SAFE  HOME  AGAIN. 


^1' 


>: 


John  Gilpin  was  a  citizen 

Of  credit  and  renown  .\  ^  ^i 
A  train -band  captain  eke  was  he 

Of  famous  London  town. 

John  Gilpin's  spouse  said  to  her  dear, 
"  Though  wedded  we  have  been 

These  twice  ten  tedious  years,  yet  we 
No  holiday  have  seen. 

"  To-morrow  is  our  wedding-day, 

And  we  will  then  repair 
Unto  the  Bell  at  Edmonton 

All  in  a  chaise  and  pair. 

"  My  sister,  and  my  sister's  child, 

Myself  and  children  three. 
Will  fill  the  chaise  ;  so  you  must  ride 

On  horseback  after  we." 

He  soon  replied,   "  I  do  admire 

Of  womankind  but  one. 
And  you  are  she,  my  dearest  dear ; 

Therefore  it  shall  be  done. 

"  I  am  a  linen-draper  bold. 

As  all  the  world  doth  know, 
And  my  good  friend  thecalender 

Will  lend  his  horse  to  go." 

Quoth  Mrs.  Gilpin,  "That's  well  said  ; 

And  for  that  wine  is  dear, 
We  will  be  furnished  with  our  own, 

Which  is  both  bright  and  clear." 

John  Gilpin  kissed  his  loving  wife  ; 

O'erjoyed  was  he  to  find 
That,  though  on  pleasure  she  was  bent, 

She  had  a  frugal  mind. 

The  morning  came,  the  chaise  was  brought, 

But  yet  was  not  allowed 
To  drive  up  to  the  door,  lest  all 

Should  say  that  she  was  proud. 

So  three  doors  off  the  chaise  was  stayed, 

Where  they  did  all  get  in  ; 
Six  precious  souls,  and  all  agog 

To  dash  through  thick  and  thin. 

Smack  went  the  whip,  round  went  the  wheels  ; 

Were  never  folk  so  glad  ; 
The  stones  did  rattle  underneath, 

As  if  Cheapside  were  mad. 
16 


John  Gilpin  at  his  horse's  side 

Seized  fast  the  flowing  mane, 
And  up  he  got,  in  haste  to  ride, 

But  soon  came  down  again ; 

For  saddle-tree  scarce  reached  had  he. 

His  journey  to  begin. 
When,  turning  round  his  head,  he  saw 

Three  customers  come  in. 

So  down  he  came  ;  for  loss  of  time. 

Although  it  grieved  him  sore. 
Yet  logs  of  pence,  full  well  he  knew. 

Would  trouble  him  much  more. 

'Twas  long  before  the  customers 

Were  suited  to  their  mind. 
When  Betty,  screaming,  came  down,  atairsr 

"  The  wine  is  left  behind  !  " 

"Good  lack  ! "  quoth  he  ;  "yet  bring  it m.e, 

My  leathern  belt  likewise. 
In  which  I  bear  my  trusty  sword 

When  I  do  exercise. " 

Now  Mrs.  Gilpin  —  careful  soul !  — 
Had  two  stone  bottles  found, 
•  To  hold  the  liquor  that  she  loved, 
And  keep  it  safe  and  sound. 

Each  bottle  had  a  curling  ear. 
Through  which  the  belt  he  drew,. 

And  hung  a  bottle  on  each  side. 
To  make  his  balance  true. 

Than  over  all,  that  he  might  be 

Equipped  from  top  to  toe. 
His  long  red  cloak,  well  brushed  and  neat, 

He  manfully  did  throw. 

Now  see  him  mounted  once  again- 

Upon  his  nimble  steed. 
Full  slowly  pacing  o'er  the  stones 

With  caution  and  good  heed. 

But  finding  soon  a  smoother  road 

Beneath  his  well-shod  feet. 
The  snorting  beast  began  to  trot, 

Which  galled  him  in  his  seat. 

So,  "Fair  and  softly,"  John  he  cried, 

But  John  he  cried  in  vain ; 
That  trot  became  a  gallop  soon, 

In  spite  of  curb  and  rein. 


242 


HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 


So  stooping  down,  as  needs  he  must 

Who  cannot  sit  upright, 
He  grasped  the  mane  with  both  his  hands, 

And  eke  with  all  his  might. 


Thus  all  through  merry  Islington 
These  gambols  he  did  play. 

Until  he  came  unto  the  Wash 
Of  Edmonton  so  gay. 


His  horse,  which  never  in  that  sort 
Had  handled  been  before, 

What  thing  upon  his  back  had  got 
Did  wonder  more  and  more. 

Away  went  Gilpin,  neck  or  nought ; 

Away  went  hat  and  wig ; 
He  little  dreamt  when  he  set  out 

Of  running  such  a  rig. 


And  there  he  threw  the  wash  about 

On  both  sides  of  the  way, 
Jiist  like  unto  a  trundling  moft 

Or  a  wild  goose  at  play. 

At  Edmonton  his  loving  wife 

From  the  balcony  spied 
Her  tender  husband,  wondering  much 

To  see  how  he  did  ride. 


The  wind  did  blow,  the  cloak  did  fly 
Like  streamer  long  and  gay. 

Till,  loop  and  button  failing  both. 
At  last  it  flew  away. 


"Stop,  stop,  John  Gilpin  ! — Here's  the  house, 

They  all  aloud  did  cry ; 
"  The  dinner  waits,  and  we  are  tired  !  " 

Said  Gilpin,  "  So  am  I !  " 


Then  might  all  people  well  discern 
The  bottles  he  had  slung ; 

A  bottle  swinging  at  each  side. 
As  hath  been  said  or  sung. 


But  yet  his  horse  was  not  a  whit 
Inclined  to  tarry  there  ; 

For  why  ?  his  owner  had  a  house. 
Full  ten  miles  ofl^  at  Ware. 


The  dogs  did  bark,  the  children  screamed, 

Up  flew  the  windows  all ; 
And  every  soul  cried  out,  "Well  done  !  " 

As  loud  as  he  could  bawl. 


So  like  an  arrow  swift  he  flew. 
Shot  by  an  archer  strong  ; 

So  did  he  fly  —  which  brings  me  to 
The  middle  of  my  song. 


Away  went  Gilpin  —  who  but  he  ? 

His  fame  soon  spread  around  ; 
He  carries  weight  !  he  rides  a  race  ! 

'Tis  for  a  thousand  pound  I 


Away  went  Gilpin  out  of  breath. 
And  sore  against  his  will, 

Till  at  his  friend  the  calender's 
His  horse  at  last  stood  still. 


And  still,  as  fast  as  he  drew  near, 
*Twas  wonderful  to  view 

How  in  a  trice  the  turnpike-men 
Their  gates  wide  open  threw. 


The  calender,  amazed  to  see 
His  neighbor  in  such  trim. 

Laid  down  his  pipe,  flew  to  the  gate, 
And  thus  accosted  him  : 


And  now,  as  he  went  bowing  down 
His  reeking  head  full  low, 

The  bottles  twain  behind  his  back 
Were  shattered  at  a  blow. 


"  What  news  ?  what  news  ?  your  tidings  tell ; 

Tell  me  you  must  and  shall ; 
Say  why  bareheaded  you  are  come. 

Or  why  you  come  at  all  ?  " 


Down  ran  the  wine  into  the  road. 

Most  piteous  to  be  seen. 
Which  made  his  horse's  flanks  to  smoke 

As  they  had  basted  been. 


Now  Gilpin  had  a  pleasant  wit. 
And  loved  a  timely  joke ; 

And  thus  unto  the  calender 
In  merry  guise  he  spoke : 


But  still  he  seemed  to  carry  weight, 
With  leathern  girdle  braced  ; 

For  all  might  see  the  bottle  necks 
Still  dangling  at  his  waist. 


"  I  came  because  your  horse  would  come : 

And,  if  I  well  forebode, 
My  hat  and  wig  will  soon  be  here. 

They  are  upon  the  road." 


WILLIAM   COWPER. 


243 


The  calender,  right  glad  to  find 

His  friend  in  merry  pin, 
Returned  him  not  a  single  word. 

But  to  the  house  went  in. 

Whence  straight  he  came  with  hat  and  wig ; 

A  wig  that  flowed  behind, 
A  hat  not  much  the  worse  for  wear, 

Each  comely  in  its  kind. 

He  held  them  up,  and  in  his  turn 

Thus  showed  his  ready  wit : 
"  My  head  is  twice  as  big  as  yours, 

They  therefore  needs  must  fit. 

"But  let  me  scrape  the  dirt  away 

That  hangs  upon  your  face  ; 
And  stop  and  eat,  for  well  you  may 

Be  in  a  hungry  case." 

Said  John,  "  It  is  my  wedding-day. 

And  all  the  world  would  stare 
If  wife  should  dine  at  Edmonton, 

And  I  should  dine  at  Ware." 

So  turning  to  his  horse,  he  said, 

"  I  am  in  haste  to  dine : 
'Twas  for  your  pleasure  you  came  here ; 

You  shall  go  back  for  mine." 

Ah,  luckless  speech  and  bootless  boast ! 

For  which  he  paid  full  dear ; 
For,  while  he  spake,  a  braying  ass 

Did  sing  most  loud  and  clear ; 

Whereat  his  horse  did  snort,  as  he 

Had  heard  a  lion  roar, 
And  galloped  off  with  all  his  might, 

As  he  had  done  before. 

Away  went  Gilpin,  and  away 

Went  Gilpin's  hat  and  wig : 
He  lost  them  sooner  than  at  first ; 

For  why?  —  they  were  too  big. 

Now  Mrs.  Gilpin,  when  she  saw 
Her  husband  posting  down 


Into  the  country  far  away. 
She  pulled  out  half  a  crown  ; 

And  thus  unto  the  youth  she  said. 

That  drove  them  to  the  Bell, 
"  This  shall  be  yours  when  you  bring  back 

My  husband  safe  and  well." 

The  youth  did  ride,  and  soon  did  meet 

John  coming  back  amain, 
Whom  in  a  trice  he  tried  to  stop, 

By  catching  at  his  rein  ; 

But  not  performing  what  he  meant. 

And  gladly  would  have  done. 
The  frighted  steed  he  frighted  more. 

And  made  him  faster  run. 

Away  went  Gilpin,  and  away 

Went  post-boy  at  his  heels. 
The  post-boy's  horse  right  glad  to  miss 

The  lumbering  of  the  wheels. 

Six  gentlemen  upon  the  road 

Thus  seeing  Gilpin  fly. 
With  post-boy  scampering  in  the  rear, 

They  raised  the  hue  and  cry : 

"Stop  thief!  stop  thief!  a  highwayman  ! ' 

Not  one  of  them  was  mute  ; 
And  all  and  each  that  passed  that  way 

Did  join  in  the  pursuit. 

And  now  the  turnpike  gates  again 

■Flew  open  in  short  space. 
The  tollmen  thinking  as  before 

That  Gilpin  rode  a  race. 

And  so  he  did,  and  won  it  too, 

For  he  got  first  to  town  ; 
Nor  stopped  till  where  he  had  got  up 

He  did  again  get  down. 

Now  let  us  sing,  Long  live  the  king, 

And  Gilpin,  long  live  he  ; 
And,  when  he  next  doth  ride  atroa^ 

May  I  be  there  to  see  I 


244  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 


JAMES    BEATTIE. 

James  Beattie  was  born  in  Scotland  in  1735,  and  was  educated  at  Aberdeen.  He  was 
intended  for  the  church,  but  gave  up  the  study  of  divinity,  and  became  a  teacher  of  youth. 
He  was  afterwards  professor  of  moral  philosophy  and  logic  in  Marischal  College,  his  nUna 
mater.  His  prose  works,  especially  his  Essay  on  Truth,  —  an  answer  to  the  sceptical 
doctrines  of  Hume,  —  gained  him  great  celebrity.  Oxford  conferred  upon  him  his  doctor's 
degree,  the  king  gave  him  a  pension  of  two  hundred  pounds,  and  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds 
painted  his  portrait  with  the  allegorical  accessories  admired  in  that  day.  He  is  now  chiefly 
remembered  for  The  Minstrel,  a  poem  in  the  Spenserian  stanza,  containing  many  pleasing 
natural  scenes,  with  many  excellent  but  rather  prosy  moral  sentiments.  He  died  in  1803. 
His  poems,  in  one  volume,  are  included  in  the  British  Poets. 

THE   HERMIT. 

At  the  close  of  the  day,  when  the  hamlet  is  still, 
And  mortals  the  sweets  of  forgetfulness  prove, 
When  nought  but  the  torrent  is  heard  on  the  hill, 
And  nought  but  the  nightingale's  song  in  the  grove, 
'Twas  thus,  by  the  cave  of  the  mountain  afar, 
While  his  harp  rung  symphonious,  a  hermit  began  : 
No  more  with  himself  or  with  nature  at  war. 
He  thought  as  a  sage,  though  he  felt  as  a  man. 

"Ah  !  why,  all  abandoned  to  darkness  and  woe, 

Why,  lone  Philomela,  that  langtiishing  fall  ? 

For  spring  shall  return,  and  a  lover  bestow, 

And  sorrow  no  longer  thy  bosom  inthrall ; 

But,  if  pity  inspire  thee,  renew  the  sad  lay  ; 

Mourn,  sweetest  complainer ;  man  calls  thee  to  mourn  ; 

O,  soothe  him  whose  pleasures,  like  thine,  pass  away  ; 

Full  quickly  they  pass,  but  they  never  return. 

"  Now,  gliding  remote  on  the  verge  of  the  sky. 
The  moon,  half  extinguished,  her  crescent  displays  ; 
But  lately  I  marked  when  majestic  on  high 
She  shone,  and  the  planets  were  lost  in  her  blaze. 
Roll  on,  thou  fair  orb,  and  with  gladness  pursue 
The  path  that  conducts  thee  to  splendor  again  ; 
But  man's  faded  glory  what  change  shall  renew  ? 
Ah,  fool !  to  exult  in  a  glory  so  vain  ! 

"  'Tis  night,  and  the  landscape  is  lovely  no  more  ; 
I  mourn,  but,  ye  woodlands,  I  mourn  not  for  you  ; 


JAMES   BEATTIE.  245 

For  morn  is  approaching,  your  charms  to  restore, 
Perfumed  with  fresh  fragrance,  and  glittering  with  dew ; 
Nor  yet  for  the  ravage  of  winter  I  mourn. 
Kind  nature  the  embryo  blossom  will  save  ; 
But  when  shall  spring  visit  the  mouldering  urn  ? 
O,  when  shall  it  dawn  on  the  night  of  the  grave  ? 

"  'Twas  thus,  by  the  glare  of  false  science  betrayed, ' 

That  leads  to  bewilder,  and  dazzles  to  Wind, 

My  thoughts  wont  to  roam  from  shade  onward  to  shade, 

Destruction  before  me,  and  sorrow  behind. 

'  O,  pity,  great  Father  of  Light,'  then  I  cried, 

'  Thy  creature,  who  fain  would  not  wander  from  thee  ; 

Lo,  humbled  in  dust,  I  relinquish  my  pride  ; 

From  doubt  and  from  darkness  thou  only  canst  free.' 

"  And  darkness  and  doubt  are  now  flying  away ; 

No  longer  I  roam  in  conjecture  forlorn. 

So  breaks  on  the  traveller,  faint  and  astray, 

The  bright  and  the  balmy  effulgence  of  morn. 

See  Truth,  Love,  and  Mercy  in  triumph  descending, 

And  nature  all  glowing  in  Eden's  first  bloom  ; 

On  the  cold  cheek  of  death  smiles  and  roses  are  blending, 

And  beauty  immortal  awakes  from  the  tomb." 


[From  The  Minstrel.] 

But  who  the  melodies  of  morn  can  tell  — 
The  wild  brook,  babbling  down  the  mountain  side ; 
The  lowing  herd  ;  the  sheepfold's  simple  bell ; 
The  pipe  of  early  shepherd,  dim  descried 
In  the  lone  valley  ;  echoing  far  and  wide, 
The  clamorous  horn  along  the  cliffs  above  ; 
The  hollow  murmur  of  the  ocean  tide  ; 
The  hum  of  bees,  the  linnet's  lay  of  love. 
And  the  full  choir  that  wakes  the  universal  grove  .•* 

The  cottage  curs  at  early  pilgrim  bark  ; 
Crowned  with  her  pail  the  tripping  milkmaid  sings  ; 
The  whistling  ploughman  stalks  afield  ;  and,  hark  ! 
Down  the  rough  slope  the  ponderous  wagon  rings  ; 
Through  rustling  corn  the  hare  astonished  springs  ; 


246  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

Slow  tolls  the  village  clock  the  drowsy  hour  ; 

The  partridge  bursts  away  on  whirring  wings  ; 

Deep  mourns  the  turtle  in  sequestered  bower, 

And  shrill  lark  carols  clear  from  her  aerial  tower. 


..     0  tor 


EDWARD   GIBBON. 

Edward  Gibbon  was  bom  at  Putney,  county  of  Surrey,  in  1737.     He  was  educated  partly 
Oxford,  and  afterwards  more  thoroughly  at  Lausanne,  in  Switzerland.     He  sat  for  a  time 
in  Parliament,  but  made  no  figure  there.     The  work  to  which  he  gave  his  life  was  the  His- 
J.  *     "  tory  of  the  Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Roman  Empire.     The  scholar  will  not  need  to  be  re- 

(A^^  minded  that  this  is  a  vast  work,  to  which  all  the  learning  of  the  ages  has  been  made  tribu- 

•  />  f  /ary,  written  in  a  noble  style  (though  somewhat  too  ornate,  and  lacking  variety),  and  without 

iy^Ac/^^^a  rival  in  any  part  of  its  extended  field.     As  the  reader  contemplates  the  marvellous  narra- 
tive, in  which  nothing,  however  remote  or  obscure,  is  omitted,  —  which  depicts  as  well  the 
^  ^J      .movements  of  armies  as  the  growth  of  legal  science,  the  magnificence  of  barbaric  rulers, 
'v''^      /z-*"^  the  manners  of  the  humble  poor,  —  the  only  sensation  is  that  of  wonder  at  such  unex- 
ampled literary  skill,  such  prodigious  reading,  such  power  of  ranging  topics  in  order,  and 
•v^ch  philosophic  connection  of  events. 

The  Christian  world  objected,  and  probably  with  reason,  to  his  account  of  the  spread  of 
the  new  religion  in  the  old  pagan  empire,  since  he  had  treated  it  with  coldly  critical  phrases  ; 
B  nd  the  current  editions  of  the  History  in  question  are  now  furnished  with  notes  by  the  late 
1l)ean  Mihnan  and  by  M.  Guizot,  supplying  omissions,  and  correcting  what  they  deem  mis- 
statements in  the  text. 

During  the  last  part  of  the  time  occupied  in  writing  his  History,  Gibbon  resided  at  Lau- 
fcanne.  The  work  was  completed  in  1787,  and  the  author  went  to  London  to  attend  to  its 
publication.  He  then  returned  to  Lausanne,  where  he  lived  until  1793.  He  died  in  Lon- 
don in  January,  1794. 

THE  OVERTHROW  OF  ZENOBIA. 

[From  the  History  of  the  Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Roman  Empire.] 

AURELIAN  had  no  sooner  secured  the  person  and  provinces  of 
Tetricus,  than  he  turned  his  arms  against  Zenobia,  the  celebrated 
Queen  of  Palmyra  and  the  East.     Modern  Europe  has  produced 
several  illustrious  women  who  have  sustained  with  glory  the  weight 
of  empire,  nor  is  our  own  age  destitute  of  such  distingui^he- '  char-' 
acters.     But  if  we  except  the.  doubtful  achievements  of  ^emiramis,  tb^-f/i'i/cU 
Zenobia  is,  perhaps,  the  only  female  whose  superior  genius  broke    , , 
through  the  servile  indolence  imposed  on  her  sex  by  the  climate  and      . 
manners  of  Asia.     She  claimed  her  descent  from  the  Macedonian  -^  ■ 
kings  of  Egypt,  equalled  in  beauty  her  ancestor  Cleopatra,  and  far 
surpassed  that  princess  in  chastity  and  valor.   Zenobia  was  esteemed 
the  most  lovely  as  well  as  the  most  heroic  of  her  sex.     She  was  of 
a  dark  complexion  (for  in  speaking  of  a  lady  these  trifles  become 
important).     Her  teeth  were  of  a  pearly  whiteness,  and  her  large, 
black  eyes   sparkled  with   uncommon  fire,  tempered  by  the  most 


EDWARD   GIBBON.  247 

attractive  sweetness.  Her  voice  was  strong  and  harmonious.  Her 
manly  understanding  was  strengthened  and  adorned  by  study.  She 
was  not  ignorant  of  the  Latin  tongue,  but  possessed  in  equal  per- 
fection the  Greek,  the  Syriac,  and  the  Egyptian  languages.  She  had 
drawn  up  for  her  own  use  an  epitome  of  Oriental  history,  and  famil- 
iarly compared^the  beauties  of  Homer  and  Plato  under  the  tuition 
of  the  sublime  Xonginus. 

This  accomplished  woman  gave  her  hand  to  Odenathus,  who,  from 
a  private  station,  raised  himself  to  the  dominion  of  the  East.  She 
soon  became  the  friend  and  companion  of  a  hero.  In  the  intervals 
of  war,  Odenathus  passionately  delighted  in  the  exercise  of  hunt- 
ing ;  he  pursued  with  ardor  the  wild  beasts  of  the  desert,  lions, 
panthers,  and  bears  ;  and  the  ardor  of  Zenobia  in  that  dangerous 
amusement  was  not  inferior  to  his  own.  She  had  inured  her  consti- 
tution to  fatigue,  disdained  the  use  of  a  covered  carriage,  generally 
appeared  on  horseback  in  a  military  habit,  and  sometimes  marched 

^^Z.       s$<veral  miles  on  foot  at  the  head  of  the  troops.     The  success  of 
Odenathus  was,  in  a  great  measure,  ascribed  to  her  incomparable 

^'*^^      prudence  and  fortitude.      Their  splendid  victories  over  the  great    -    l. 

jued  as  far  as  the  gates  of  Ctesiphon,  laid  ''^  ^^^ 

z^^-v^hey  commanded,  and  the  provinces  which  they  had  saved,  acknowl 


(AaU^     king,  whom  they  twice  pursued  as  far  as  the  gates  of  Ctesiphon,  laid  '^^^^jZ-t/^ 


j^^^/vi^-the  foundations  of  their  united  fame  and  power.  The  armies  which 
j-^-v^hey  commanded,  and  the  provinces  which  they  had  saved,  acknowl- 
^j(^^^uX^^g^^  not  any  other  sovereigns  than  their  invincible  chiefs.  The 
l^jf^y  senate  and  people  of  Rome  revered  a  stranger  who  had  avenged 
'',    ^       their  captive  emperor,  and-  even  the  insensible  son  of  y^alerian  ac- 


^^*^       cepted  Odenathus  for  his  legitimate  colleague.  'C4' '-'■■'     ' "  ^  y-^  1^^    .    .  ,\ . 

"^w  After  a  successful  expedition  against  the  Gothic  plunderers  of 

-'"  Asia,  the  Palmyrenian  prince  returned  to  the  city  of  Emesa,  in  ^.. 

Syria.     Invincible  in  war,  he  was  there  cut  off  by  domestic  treason,        '  -^    _ 
xA"^'-^       and  his  favorite  amusement  of  hunting  was  the  cause,  or  at  least  the     -  '^^ 
^    ^      occasion,  of  his  death.     His  nephew  Maeonius  presumed  to  dart  his  ^'^  •**''*''**^ 
javelin  before  that  of  his  uncle,  and,  though  admonished  of  his  error,  ^ _   ':'  ' 
repeated  the  same  insolence.     As  a  monarch  and  as  a  sportsman 
Odenathus  was  provoked,  took  away  his  horse,  —  a  mark  of  igno- 
,  miny  among  the  barbarians,  —  and  chastised  the  rash  youth  by  a 
]  .short  confinement.     The  offence  was  soon  forgot,  but  the  punish- 
" /ment  was  remembered  ;  and  Masonius,  with  a  few  daring  associates, 
/  ,'  ->r  ^assassinated  his  uncle  in  the  midst  of  a  great  entertainment.    Herod, 
the  son  of  Odenathus,  though  not  of  Zenobia,  a  young  man  of  a  soft 
^.^  ^        and  effeminate  temper,  was  killed  with  his  father.     But  Maeonius 
Kim     <^btained  only  the  pleasure  of  revenge  by  this  bloody  deed.     He  had 


k" 


•V 


'  rf^.      ,tP?^^^'w^  HANI>BOOK  of  ENGLISH^  literature.    /?    -/^    /       .Z      ^ 

' ,'        '  scarcely  time  to  assume  theytitle  of  Ai^gustus  before  he  was  sacri-  ^ 

^'(aIaA^        ficed  byZenobia  to  the  memory  of  her  liusband. 

^/vs-)^/^/)      With  the  assistance  of  his  most  faithful  friends,  she  immediately 

filled  the  vacant  throne,  and  governed  with  manly  councils  Palmyra, 

,       '  'Syria,  and  the  East  above  five  years.     By  the  death  of  Odenathus, 

that  authority  was  at  an  end  which  the  senate  had  granted  him  only 

x.*J^  '    as  a  personal  distinction  ;  but  his  martial  widow,  disdaining  both 

'    the  senate  and  Gallienus,  obliged  one  of  the  Roman  generals,  who 


)  CaX*J  ¥t     was  sent  against  her,  to  retreat  into  Europe,  with  the  loss  of  his 
'     ^/JjJ^i^*  army  and  his  reputation.     Instead  of  the  little  passions  which  so 
^^     ,  frequently  perplex  a  female  reign,  the  steady  administration  of  Ze- 

Wiki^"^        nobia  was  guided  by  the  most  judicious  maxims  of  policy.     If  it  was 
expedient  to  pardon,  she  could  calm  her  resentment ;  if  it  was  ne- 
cessary to  punish,  she  could  impose  silence  on  the  voice  of  pity. 
Her  strict  economy  was  accused  of  avarice  ;  yet  on  every  proper 
occasion  she  appeared  magnificent  and  liberal.     The  neighboring 
states^of  Arabia^'  Armenia,  and  Persia  dreaded  her  enmity,  and  so- 
hcited  her  alliance.     To  the  dominions  of  Odenathus,  which  extend- 
ed from  the  Euphrates  to  the  frontiers  of  Bithynia,  his  widow  added 
^  ^     ^  the  inheritance  of  her  ancestors,  the  populous  and  fertile  kingdom 
/        of  Egypt.     The  Emperor  Claudius  acknowledged  her  merit,  and  was 
iA^^  J      content  that,  while  /le  pursued  the  Gothic  war,  s/ie  should  assert  the 
.  ,,  /     li'v   dignity  of  the  empire  in  the  East.     The  conduct,  however,  of  Zeno- 
bia  was  attended  with  some  ambiguity  ;  nor  is  it  unHkely  that  she 
^  .had  conceived  the  design  of  erecting  a«  independent  and  hostile 
:^  ■  ijionarchy.    She  blended  with  the  popular  manners  of  Roman  princes 
the  stately  pomp  of  the  courts  of  Asia,  and  exacted  from  her  sub- 
"    ,  jjects  the  same  adoration  that  was  paid  to  the  successors  of  Cyrus. 
-^'  * '    She  bestowed  on  her  three  sons  a  Latin  education,  and  often  showed 
.    ,)  them  to  the  troops  adorned  with  the  imperial  purple.     For  herself 
^ci^Ltur^'^  she  reserved  the  diadem,  with  the  splendid  but  doubtful  title  of 
.\a\'.  Oueen  of  the  East. 
//     ^^When  Aurelian  passed  over  into  Asia,  against  an  adversary  whose 
■       sex  alone  could  render  her  an  object  of  contempt,  his  presence  re- 
stored obedience  to  the  province  of  Bithynia,  already  shaken  by  the 
it^)'^^"'^X  arms  and  intrigues  of  Zenobia.     Advancing  at  the  head  of  his  le- 
'  §      ^i'^gions,  he  accepted  the  submission  o^  Xncyra,  and  was  admitted  into 
V        /Tyana,  after  an  obstinate  siege,  by  me  help  of  a  perfidious  citizen. 
*v-r^^  The  generous  though  fierce  temper  of  Aurelian  abandoned  the  trai- 
|^£^^v^  tor  to  the  rage  of  the  soldiers  ;  a  superstitious  reverence  induced 

him  to  treat  with  lenity  the  countrymen  of  ApoUonius,  the  philoso- 

L  o^i''</  '^''^  ''■    •  /    //' 


EDWARD   GIBBON.  249 

pher.  Antioch  was  deserted  on  his  approach,  till  the  emperor,  by 
his  salutary  edicts,  recalled  the  fugitives,  and  granted  a  general  par- 
don to  all  who,  from  necessity  rather  than  choice,  had  been  engaged 
in  the  service  of  the  Palmyrenian  queen.  The  unexpected  mildness 
of  such  a  conduct  reconciled  the  minds  of  the  Syrians,  and,  as  far  as 
the  gates  of  Emesa,  the  wishes  of  the  people  seconded  the  terror  of 
his  arms. 

Zenobia  would  have  ill  deserved  her  reputation  had  she  indolently 
permitted  the  Emperor  of  the  West  to  approach  within  a  hundred 
miles  of  her  capital.  The  fate  of  the  East  was  decided  in  two  great 
battles,  so  similar,  in  almost  every  circumstance,  that  we  can  scarcely 
distinguish  them  from  each  other,  except  by  observing  that  the  first 
was  fought  near  Antioch,  and  the  second  near  Emesa.  In  both  the 
Queen  of  Palmyra  animated  the  armies  by  her  presence,  and  devolved 
the  execution  of  her  orders  on  Zabdas,  who  had  already  signalized 
his  military  talents  by  the  conquest  of  Egypt.  The  numerous  forces 
of  Zenobia  consisted  for  the  most  part  of  light  archers,  and  of  heavy 
cavalry  clothed  in  complete  steel.  The  Moorish  and  Illyrian  horse 
of  Aurelian  were  unable  to  sustain  the  ponderous  charge  of  their 
antagonists.  They  fled  in  real  or  affected  disorder,  engaged  the 
Palmyrenians  in  a  laborious  pursuit,  harassed  them  by  a  desultory 
combat,  and  at  length  discomfited  this  impenetrable  but  unwieldy 
body  of  cavalry.  The  fight  infantry,  in  the  mean  time,  when  they 
had  exhausted  their  quivers,  remaining  without  protection  against  a 
closer  onset,  exposed  their  naked  sides  to  the  swords  of  the  legions. 
Aurelian  had  chosen  these  veteran  troops,  who  were  usually  sta- 
tioned on  th^  Upper  Danube,  and  whose  valor  had  been  severely 
tried  in  the^lemannic  war.  After  the  defeat  of  Emesa,  Zenobia 
found  it  impossible  to  collect  a  third  army.  As  far  as  the  frontier 
of  Egypt,  the  nations  subject  tocher  empire  had  joined  the  standard 
of  the  conquerpr,  who  detached'?*robus,  the  bravest  of  his  generals, 
to  possess  himself  of  the  Egyptian  provinces.  Palmyra  was  the 
last  resource  of  the  widow  of  Odenathus.  She  retired  within  the 
walls  of  her  capital,  made  every  preparation  for  a  vigorous  resist- 
ance, and  declared,  with  the  intrepidity  of  a  heroine,  that  the  last 
moment  of  her  reign  and  of  her  life  should  be  the  same. 

Amid  the  barren  deserts  of  Arabia,  a  few  cultivated  spots  rise  Hke 
islands  out  of  the  sandy  ocean.  Even  the  name  of  Tadmor,  or  Pal- 
myra, by  its  signification  in  the  Syriac  as  well  as  in  the  Latin  lan- 
guage, denoted  the  multitude  of  palm  trees  which  afforded  shade  and 
verdure  to  that  temperate  region.     The  air  was  pure,  and  the  soil, 


^-  C^J^-  AjM-^^'^  (UvJUP^^^'  ^^  ^/d^-^/^M, 

ULmI'i  Kh       ^S^Aui^      y*[AND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 


AJr^r-jJ     (/^'  watered  by  some  invaluable  springs,  was  capable  of  producing  fruits 
as  well  as  corn.     A  place  possessed  of  such  singular  advantages, 


I-^AJ^^-^  and  situated  at  a  convenient  distance  between  the  Gulf  of  Persia 
and  the  Mediterranean,  was  soon  frequented  by  the  caravans  which 
conveyed  to  the  nations  of  Europe  a  considerable  part  of  the  rich 
commodities  of  India.  Palmyra  insensibly  increased  into  an  opu- 
lent and  independent  city,  and,  connecting  the  Roman  and  the  Par- 
thian monarchies  by  the  mutual  benefits  of  commerce,  was  suffered 
to  observe  a  humble  neutrality,  till  at  length,  after  the  victories  of 
/-'Trajan,  the  little  republic  sank  into  the  bosom  of  Rome,  and  flour- 
ished more  than  one  hundred  and  fifty  years  in  the  subordinate 
though  honorable  rank  of  a  colony.  It  was  during  that  peaceful 
period,  if  we  may  judge  from  a  few  remaining  inscriptions,  that  the 
wealthy  Palmyrenians  constructed  those  temples,  palaces,  and  por- 
ticos of  Grecian  architecture,  whose  ruins,  scattered  over  an  extent 
of  several  miles,  have  deserved  the  curiosity  of  our  travellers.  The 
elevation  of  Odenathus  and  Zenobia  appeared  to  reflect  new  splen- 
dor on  their  country,  and  Palmyra,  for  a  while,  stood  forth  the  rival 
of  Rome  ;  but  the  competition  was  fatal,  and  ages  of  prosperity 
were  sacrificed  to  a  moment  of  glory. 

In  his  march  over  the  sandy  desert  between  Emesa  and  Palmyra, 
the  Emperor  Aurelian  was  perpetually  harassed  by  the  Arabs  ;  nor 
could  he  always  defend  his  army,  and  especially  his  baggage,  from 
those  flying  troops  of  active  and  daring  robbers,  who  watched  the 
moment  of  surprise,  and  eluded  the  slow  pursuit  of  the  legions. 
The  siege  of  Palmyra  was  an  object  far  more  difficult  and  important, 
and  the  emperor,  who,  with  incessant  vigor,  pressed  the  attacks  in 
person,  was  himself  wounded  with  a  dart.  "  The  Roman  people," 
says  Aurelian,  in  an  original  letter,  "  speak  with  contempt  of  the 
war  which  I  am  waging  against  a  woman.  They  are  ignorant  both 
of  the  character  and  of  the  power  of  Zenobia.  It  is.  impossible  to 
enumerate  her  warlike  preparations  of  stones,  of  arrows,  and  of 
every  species  of  missile  weapons.  Every  part  of  the  walls  is  pro- 
vided with  two  or  three  balistce,  and  artificial  fires  are  thrown  from 
her  military  engines.  The  fear  of  punishment  has  armed  her  with  a 
desperate  courage.  Yet  still  I  trust  in  the  protecting  deities  of 
Rome,  who  have  hitherto  been  favorable  to  all  my  undertakings." 
Doubtful,  however,  of  the'  protection  of  the  gods,  and  of  the  event 
of  the  siege,  Aurelian  judged  it  more  prudent  to  offer  terms  of  an 
advantageous  capitulation  :  to  the  queen,  a  splendid  retreat ;  to  the 
citizens,  their  ancient  privileges.  His  proposals  were  obstinately 
rejected,  and  the  refusal  was  accompanied  with  insult. 


EDWARD   GIBBON.  25 1 

The  firmness  of  Zenobia  was  supported  by  the  hope,  that  in  a  very 
short  time  famine  would  compel  the  Roman  army  to  repass  the 
desert ;  and  by  the  reasonable  expectation  that  the  kings  of  the 
East,  and  particularly  the  Persian  monarch,  would  arm  in  the  defence 
of  their  most  natural  ally.  But  fortune,  and  the  perseverance  of 
Aurelian,  overcame  every  obstacle.  The  death  of  Sapor,  which 
happened  about  this  time,  distracted  the  councils  of  Persia,  and  the 
inconsiderable  succors  that  attempted  to  relieve  Palmyra  were  easily 
intercepted  either  by  the  arms  or  the  liberality  of  the  emperor. 
From  every  part  of  Syria  a  regular  succession  of  convoys  safely 
arrived  in  the  camp,  which  was  increased  by  the  return  of  Probus 
with  his  victorious  troops  from  the  conquest  of  Egypt.  It  was  then 
that  Zenobia  resolved  to  fly.  She  mounted  the  fleetest  of  her  drom- 
edaries, and  had  already  reached  the  banks  of  the  Euphrates,  about 
sixty  miles  from  Palmyra,  when  she  was  overtaken  by  the  pursuit  of 
Aurelian's  hght  horse,  seized,  and  brought  back  a  captive  to  the  feet 
of  the  emperor.  Her  capital  soon  afterwards  surrendered,  and  was 
treated  with  unexpected  lenity.  The  arms,  horses,  and  camels,  with 
an  immense  treasure  of  gold,  silver,  silk,  and  precious  stones,  were 
all  delivered  to  the  conqueror,  who,  leaving  only  a  garrison  of  six 
hundred  archers,  returned  to  Emesa,  and  employed  some  time  in  the 
distribution  of  rewards  and  punishments  at  the  end  of  so  memorable 
a  war,  which  restored  to  the  obedience  of  Rome  those  provinces  that 
had  renounced  their  allegiance  since  the  captivity  of  Valerian. 

When  the  Syrian  queen  was  brought  into  the  presence  of  Aurelian, 
he  sternly  asked  her  how  she  had  presumed  to  rise  in  arms  against 
the  emperors  of  Rome  !  The  answer  of  Zenobia  was  a  prudent 
mixture  of  respect  and  firmness  :  "  Because  I  disdained  to  consider 
as  Roman  emperors  an  Aureolus  or  a  Gallienus.  You  alone  I 
acknowledge  as  my  conqueror  and  my  sovereign."  But  as  female 
fortitude  is  commonly  artificial,  so  it  is  seldom  steady  or  consistent. 
The  courage  of  Zenobia  deserted  her  in  the  hour  of  trial ;  she 
trembled  at  the  angry  clamors  of  the  soldiers,  who  called  aloud  for 
her  immediate  execution,  forgot  the  generous  despair  of  Cleopatra, 
which  she  had  proposed  as  her  model,  and  ignominiously  purchased 
life  by  the  sacrifice  of  her  fame  and  her  friends.  It  was  to  their 
counsels,  which  governed  the  weakness  of  her  sex,  that  she  imputed 
the  guilt  of  her  obstinate  resistance  ;  it  was  on  their  heads  that  she 
directed  the  vengeance  of  the  cruel  Aurelian.  The  fame  of  Longinus, 
who  was  included  among  the  numerous  and  perhaps  innocent  victims 
of  her  fear,  will  survive  that  of  the  queen  who  betrayed,  or  the  tyrant 


252  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

who  condemned  him.  Genius  and  learning  were  incapable  of 
moving  a  fierce,  unlettered  soldier,  but  they  had  served  to  elevate 
and  harmonize  the  soul  of  Longinus.  Without  uttering  a  complaint, 
he  calmly  followed  the  executioner,  pitying  his  unhappy  mistress, 
and  bestowing  comfort  on  his  afflicted  friends. 

Since  the  foundation  of  Rome,  no  general  had  more  nobly  de- 
served a  triumph  than  Aurelian  ;  nor  was  a  triumph  ever  celebrated 
with  superior  pride  and  magnificence.  The  pomp  was  opened  by 
twenty  elephants,  four  royal  tigers,  and  above  two  hundred  of  the 
most  curious  animals  from  every  climate  of  the  north,  the  east,  and 
the  south.  They  were  followed  by  sixteen  hundred  gladiators, 
devoted  to  the  cruel  amusement  of  the  amphitheatre.  The  wealth  of 
Asia,  the  arms  and  ensigns  of  so  many  conquered  nations,  and  the 
magnificent  plate  and  wardrobe  of  the  Syrian  queen,  were  disposed 
in  exact  symmetry  or  artful  disorder.  The  ambassadors  of  the  most 
remote  parts  of  the  earth,  of  Ethiopia,  Arabia,  Persia,  Bactriana, 
India,  and  China,  all  remarkable  by  their  rich  or  singular  dresses, 
displayed  the  fame  and  power  of  the  Roman  emperor,  who  exposed 
likewise  to  the  pubhc  view  the  presents  that  he  had  received,  and 
particularly  a  great  number  of  crowns  of  gold,  the  offerings  of  grate- 
P         '  -/—'    J     ful  cities. 

*^-*'^^'^'!^    of  captives  .        ^^_„^.^,,^       ^^...     ,,,  ^ 

"^^  <A  (/^^c^-Sarmatians,  Alemanni,    Franks,   Gauls,'  ^^yrians,    arid    Egyptiansn'y 
y  Each  people  was  distinguished  by  its  peculiar  inscription,  and  the     'k 

title  of  Amazons  was  bestowed  on  ten  martial  heroines  of  the  Gothic  ^ 
nation  who  had  been  taken  in  arms.  But  every  eye,  disregarding  the 
crowd  of  captives,  was  fixed  on  the  Emperor  Tetricus  and  the  Queen 
of  the  East.  The  former,  as  well  as  his  son,  whom  he  had  created 
Augustus,  was  dressed  in  Gallic  trousers,  a  saffron  tunic,  and  a  robe 
of  purple.  The  beauteous  figure  of  Zenobia  was  confined  by  fetters 
of  gold ;  a  slave  supported  the  gold  chain  which  encircled  her  neck, 
and  she  almost  fainted  under  the  intolerable  weight  of  jewels.  She 
preceded  on  foot  the  magnificent  chariot,  in  which  she  once  hoped 
to  enter  the  gates  of  Rome.  It  was  followed  by  two  other  chariots, 
still  more  sumptuous,  of  Odenath'is  and  of  the  Persian  monarch. 
The  triumphal  car  of  Aurelian  (It  had  formerly  been  used  by  a 
Gothic  king)  was  drawn,  on  this  memorable  occasion,  either  by  four 
stags  or  by  four  elephants.  The  most  illustrious  of  the  senate,  the 
people,  and  the  army,  closed  the  solemn  procession.  Unfeigned 
joy,  wonder,  and  gratitude,  swelled  the  acclamations  of  the  multi- 


ANNE   BARNARD.  253 

tude  ;  but  the  satisfaction  of  the  senate  was  clouded  by  the  appear-  a  $  ( 
ance  of  Tetricus  ;  nor  could  they  suppress  a  rising  murmur,  that  the  l^<MA/'(^Ay^ 
haughty  emperor  should  thus  expose  to  public  ignominy  the  person  -K,^B^e>*^ 
of  a  Roman  and  a  magistrate.  /  .  .<„  .  .  > 

But,  however  in  the  treatment  of  his  unfortunate  rivals  Aurehan 
might  indulge  his  pride,  he  behaved  towards  them  with  a  generous 
clemency,  which  was  seldom  exercised  by  the  ancient  conquerors. 
Princes  who,  without  success,  had  defended  their  throne  or  freedom, 
were  frequently  strangled  in  prison,  as  soon  as  the  triumphal  pomp 
ascended  the  Capitol.     These  usurpers,  whom  their  defeat  had  con-  „y''Ou,^ 
victed  of  the  crime  of  treason,  were  permitted  to  spend  their  lives  in  (yi^i^X^ 
affluence  and   honorable  repose.     The  emperor  presented  Zenobia      ..^^w  / 
with  an  elegant  villa  at  Tibur,  or  Tivoli,  about  twenty  miles  from   c^/I'^^ 
the  capital ;  the  Syrian  queen  insensibly  sunk  into  a  Roman  matron,      ~--^' 
her  daughters  married  into  noble  families,  and  her  race  was  not  yet     •  "^        ■  ^. 
extinct  in  the  fifth  century.  _^  -"ih-^Z—.-f^.j^ 

Lady  Anne  Barnard,  daughter  of  the  Earl  of  Balcarres,  was  bom  in  1750,  and  died  in 
1825.  She  was  a  friend  and  correspondent  of  Scott  and  of  Lady  Byron  ;  some  of  her  letters 
to  the  latter  have  been  published  during  the  late  controversy  as  to  the  causa  of  her  separation 

-^  from  Lord  Byron. 

f/^j^  The  ballad  which  follows,  written  when  she  was  twenty-one  years  of  age,  is  unsurpassed 
for  tender  feeling  and  truth  to  nature. 

AULD   ROBIN   GRAY. 

When  the  sheep  are  in  the  fauld,  when  the  kye's  come  hame, 

And  a'  the  weary  warld  to  rest  are  gane, 

The  waes  o'  my  heart  fa'  in  showers  frae  my  e'e, 

IJnkent  by  my  gudeman,  wha  sleeps  sound  by  me. 

('Young  Jamie  lo'ed  me  weel,  and  sought  me  for  his  bride, 
^    '       yS3*  ^^^'"S  ^^  crown-piece  he  had  naething  beside  ; 
y\\y^'^^\Jo  make  the  crown  a  pound  my  Jamie  gaed  to  sea, 
/()vC'-'-   And  the  crown  and  the  pound  —  they  were  baith  for  me. 


^  ^ ^.Me  hadna  been  gane  a  twelvemonth  and  a  day, 
/  ex    , '  When  my  father  brake  his  arm  and  the  cow  was  stown  away ; 
"'My  mither  she  fell  sick  —  my  Jamie  was  at  sea, 
t^^And  Auld  Robin  Gray  came  a  courting  me.  /^ 

1^        *  V  '{/W  ^ 


254  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

My  father  couldna  wark  —  my  mither  couldna  spin  — 
I  toiled  day  and  night,  but  their  bread  I  couldna  win  ; 
Auld  Rob  maintained  them  baith,  and,  wi'  tears  in  his  e'e, 
Said,  "  Jeanie,  O,  for  their  sakes,  will  ye  no  marry  me  ?  " 

My  heart  it  said  na,  and  I  looked  for  Jamie  back  ; 
But  hard  blew  the  winds,  and  his  ship  was  a  wrack  ; 
His  ship  was  a  wrack  —  why  didna  Jamie  die, 
Or  why  am  I  spared  to  cry  wae  is  me  ? 

My  father  urged  me  sair  —  my  mither  didna  speak, 
But  she  looked  in  my  face  till  my  heart  was  like  to  break  ; 
They  gied  him  my  hand  —  my  heart  was  in  the  sea  — 
And  so  Robin  Gray  he  was  gudeman  to  me. 

I  hadna  been  his  wife  a  week  but  only  four. 
When,  mournfu'  as  I  sat  on  the  stane  at  my  door, 
I  saw  my  Jamie's  ghaist,  for  I  couldna  think  it  he 
Till  he  said,  "  I'm  come  hame,  love,  to  marry  thee  !  " 

O,  sair,  sair  did  we  greet,  and  mickle  say  of  a' ; 

I  gied  him  ae  kiss,  and  bade  him  gang  awa' : 

I  wish  that  I  were  dead,  butJ'm  na  like  to  die. 

For,  though  my  heart  is  broken,  I'm  but  young,  wae  is  me ! 

I  gang  like  a  ghaist,  and  I  carena  much  to  spin, 
I  darena  think  o'  Jamie,  for  that  wad  be  a  sin ; 
But  I'll  do  my  best  a  gude  wife  to  be, 
For,  O,  Robin  Gray,  he  is  kind  to  me. 


ROBERT   BURNS 


u 


Robert  Bums  was  bom  on  the  2sth  of  January,  1759,  near  the  town  of  Ayr,  in  Scotland. 
Both  his  parents  are  said  to  have  been  possessed  of  more  than  common  abilities.  The 
future  poat  was  in  his  boyhood  a  grave  and  dull  lad,  but  was  well  instructed  by  his  teacher 
and  by  his  father  in  the  ordinary  branches  of  an  English  education.  At  fifteen  he  per- 
formed the  labor  of  a  man  on  the  farm,  but  contrived  to  find  leisure  for  reading  many  books, 
especially  some  plays  of  Shakespeare,  the  works  of  Pope,  and  a  collection  of  songs.  ' '  I 
pored  over  them,"  says  he,  "driving  my  cart  or  walking  to  labor,  song  by  song,  verse  by 
verse,  carefully  noticing  the  true  tender  or  sublime  from  affectation  and  fustian."  After 
the  death  of  his  father  he  took  a  farm  at  Mossgiel,  where  he  resided  four  years.  This  was 
the  most  fruitful  period  of  his  life,  during  which  he  wrote  many  of  his  most  striking  poems. 
These  were  printed  at  Kilmarnock,  and  copies  finding  their  way  to  Edinburgh,'  their  sue- 


ROBERT   BURNS.  255 

cess  was  immediate  and  unbounded.  The  poet  was  invited  to  the  capital,  and  was  received 
with  the  heartiest  enthusiasm.  A  new  edition  of  his  poems  was  pubHshed,  by  which  he  re- 
alized a  handsome  sum,  and  Sie  returned  home  a  famous  man.  Shortly  after  he  was  ap- 
pointed an  exciseman,  with  a  salary  of  seventy  pounds.  It  is  very  seldom  that  a  public  of- 
fice does  not  work  some  mischief  to  the  incumbent,  and  the  case  of  Burns  was  no  exception 
to  the  rule.  His  character  and  habits  from  this  time  were  changed  rapidly  for  the  worse. 
Evil  associates  gathered  around  him,  dragging  him  deeper  into  dissipation,  until,  while 
still  in  early  manhood,  his  vital  powers  gave  way,  and  he  died  at  the  age  of  thirty-seven. 

Perhaps  the  best  idea  of  the  songs  of  Burns  can  be  had  from  h'.s  own  preface:  "The 
poetic  genius  of  my  country  found  me,  as  the  prophetic  bard  Elijah  did  Elisha,  at  the 
plough,  and  threw  her  inspiring  mantle  over  me.  She  bade  me  sing  the  loves,  the  joys, 
the  rural  scenes  and  rural  pleasures,  of  my  native  soil,  in  my  native  tongue.  I  tuned  my 
wild,  artless  notes  as  she  inspired."  The  finest  phrases  of  the  critic  can  add  nothing  to 
this.  Every  lover  of  poetry  feels  a  thrill  in  reading  Burns  —  the  touch  of  nature  that 
makes  the  whole  world  kin.  His  songs  are  as  far  from  the  learned  verses  made  by  antique 
rules,  as  his  own  Daisy,  wet  with  the  morning  dew,  is  from  its  waxen  counterfeit ;  they  are 
Nature's  blossoms,  that  can  give  no  account  of  themselves,  opening  to  the  eye  of  heaven, 
and  not  to  the  eye  of  man  ;  they  are  the  miracles  which  are  impossible  till  they  happen. 
Genius  in  it?  absolute  sense  is  always  a  superlative  ;  the  differences  are  in  kind,  but  nwt  in 
degree  ;  and  probably  the  world  will  wait  as  long  for  another  Burns  as  for  another  Shake- 
speare. 

The  poems  of  Bums  are  pubHshed  in  a  great  variety  of  forms.  Critical  articles  without 
number  have  appeared  in  the  reviews ;  but  the  reader  who  wishes  to  obtain  the  most  ac- 
curate idea  of  the  man,  and  of  his  genius,  should  read  the  able,  thorough,  and  appreciative 
essay  by  his  great  countryman,  Carlyle. 

THE   cotter's    SATURDAY   NIGHT. 

INSCRIBED   TO   ROBERT   AIKEN,    ESQ.^ 

My  loved,  my  honored,  much  respected  friend, 
No  mercenary  bard  his  homage  pays  ; 
With  honest  pride  I  scorn  each  selfish  end, 
My  dearest  meed  a  friend's  esteem  and  praise. 
To  you  I  sing,  in  simple  Scottish  lays. 
The  lowly  train  in  life's  sequestered  scene  ; 
The  native  feelings  strong,  the  guileless  ways  ; 
What  Aiken  in  a  cottage  would  have  been ; 
Ah  !  though  his  worth  unknown,  far  happier  there,  I  ween ! 


November  chill  blaws  loud  wi'  angry  sugh  ; 
The  shortening  winter  day  is  near  a  close  ; 
The  miry  beasts  retreating  frae  the  pleugh, 
The  blackening  trains  o'  craws  ^  to  their  repose ; 
The  toil-worn  cotter  frae  his  labor  goes,  — 

r  A  legal  practitioner  in  Ayr,  of  considerable  oratorical  talents,  who  was  among  the  first 
to  befriend  the  poet. 
2  Crows. 


2^6  HAND  BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

This  night  his  weekly  moil  is  at  an  end,  — 
Collects  his  spades,  his  mattocks,  and  his  hoes, 
Hoping  the  morn  in  ease  and  rest  to  spend, 
And  weary,  o'er  the  moor,  his  course  does  hameward  bend. 

At  length  his  lonely  cot  appears  in  view. 
Beneath  the  shelter  of  an  aged  tree  ; 
The  expectant  wee  things,  toddlin',  stacher '  through 
To  meet  their  dad,  wi'  flichterin'  '^  noise  and  glee. 
His  wee  bit  ingle  •'  blinkin'  bonnily, 
His  clean  hearthstane,  his  thriftie  wifie's  smile. 
The  lisping  infant  prattling  on  his  knee, 
Does  a'  his  weary  kiaugh  ''  an'  care  beguile. 
An'  makes  him  quite  forget  his  labor  an'  his  toil. 

Belyve,^  the  elder  bairns  come  drapping  in. 
At  service  out  amang  the  farmers  roun' : 
Some  ca'  the  pleugh,  some  herd,  some  tentie®  rin 
A  cannie '  errand  to  a  neibor  town  : 
Their  eldest  hope,  their  Jenny,  woman  grown, 
In  youthfu'  bloom,  love  sparkling  in  her  e'e, 
Comes  hame,  perhaps,  to  show  a  braw  "  new  gown, 
Or  deposite  her  sair-worn  penny-fee. 
To  help  her  parents  dear,  if  they  in  hardship  be. 

Wi'  joy  unfeigned,  brothers  and  sisters  meet, 
And  each  for  other's  welfare  kindly  spiers  :  * 
The  social  hours,  swift-winged,  unnoticed  fleet ; 
Each  tells  the  uncos  *°  that  he  sees  or  hears. 
The  parents,  partial,  eye  their*  hopeful  years  ; 
Anticipation  forward  points  the  view : 
The  mother,  wi'  her  needle  an'  her  shears. 
Gars  '^  auld  claes  '^  look  amaist  '^  as  weel's  the  new ; 
The  father  mixes  a'  wi'  admonition  due. 

Their  master's  and  their  mistress's  command 
The  younkers  a'  are  warned  to  obey, 
An'  mind  their  labors  wi'  an  eydent  **  hand, 
An'  ne'er,  though  out  o'  sight,  to  jauk  ^»  or  play : 

1  Stagger.  2  Fluttering.  3  Fireplace.  *  Anxiety.  ^  By  and  by. 

6  Heedful.  7  Careful.  8  Fine.  »  Asks.  10  News. 

11  Makes.  12  Clothes.  w  Almost.  i*  Diligent.  1=  Trifle. 


ROBERT   BURNS.  257 

"  An'  O,  be  sure  to  fear  the  Lord  alway  ! 
An'  mind  your  duty,  duly,  morn  an'  night !  • 

Lest  in  temptation's  path  ye  gang  '  astray, 
Implore  His  counsel  and  assisting  might : 
They  never  sought  in  vain  that  sought  the  Lord  aright !  " 

But  hark  !  a  rap  comes  gently  to  the  door  ; 
Jenny,  wha  kens  the  meaning  o'  the  same, 
Tells  how  a  neibor  lad  cam  o'er  .the  moor 
To  do  some  errands,  and  convoy  her  hame. 
The  wily  mother  sees  the  conscious  flame 
Sparkle  in  Jenny's  e'e,  an'  flush  her  cheek ; 
Wi'  heart-struck,  anxious  care,  inquires  his  name, 
While  Jenny  hafilins  '^  is  afraid  to  speak  ; 
Weel  pleased  the  mother  hears  its  nae  wild,  worthless  rake. 

Wi'  kindly  welcome  Jenny  brings  him  ben*^  — 
A  strappin'  youth  ;  he  taks  the  mother's  eye  ; 
Blythe  Jenny  sees  the  visit's  no  ill  ta'en  ; 
The  father  cracks  of  horses,  pleughs,  and  kye.* 
The  youngster's  artless  heart  o'erflows  wi'  joy, 
But,  blate  ^  an'  laithfu',®  scarce  can  weel  behave  ; 
The  mother,  wi'  a  woman's  wiles,  can  spy 
What  makes  the  youth  sae  bashfu'  and  sae  grave  ; 
Weel  pleased  to  think  her  bairn's  respected  like  the  lave.'' 

O,  happy  love  !  —  where  love  like  this  is  found  ! 
O,  heartfelt  raptures  !  — bliss  beyond  compare  ! 
I've  paced  much  this  weary,  mortal  round. 
And  sage  experience  bids  me  this  declare  — 
"If  Heaven  a  draught  of  heavenly  pleasure  spare, 
One  cordial  in  this  melancholy  vale, 
'Tis  when  a  youthful,  loving,  modest  pair 
In  other's  arms  breathe  out  the  tender  tale". 
Beneath  the  milk-white  thorn  that  scents  the  evening  gale." 

Is  there  in  human  form,  that  bears  a  heart, 
A  wretch,  a  villain,  lost  to  love  and  truth, 
That  can,  with  studied,  sly,  ensnaring  art, 

3  Into  the  room.  *  Cows. 

^  Rest. 


»  Go. 

2  Almost  hal£ 

»  Bashful. 

«  Hesitating 

17 

258  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

Betray  sweet  Jenny's  unsuspecting  youth  ? 
Curse  on  his  perjured  arts  !  dissembling  smooth  ! 
Are  honor,  virtue,  conscience,  all  exiled  ? 
Is  there  no  pity,  no  relenting  ruth, 
Points  to  the  parents  fondling  o'er  their  child  ? 
Then  paints  the  ruined  maid,  and  their  distraction  wild  ? 

But  now  the  supper  crowns  their  simple  board, 
The  halesome  parritch,^  chief  of  Scotia's  food  ; 
The  soupe  their  only  hawkie  ^  does  afford, 
That  'yont  the  hallan  ^  snugly  chows  her  cud  :     s 
The  dame  brings  forth,  in  compli mental  mood, 
To  grace  the  lad,  her  weel-hained  kebbuck  *  fell,* 
An'  aft  he's  prest,  an'  aft  he  ca's  it  guid ; 
The  frugal  wifie,  garrulous,  will  tell. 
How  'twas  a  towmond  ^  auld,  sin'  lint '  was  i'  the  bell.* 

The  cheerfu'  supper  done,  wi'  serious  face, 
They,  round  the  ingle,  form  a  circle  wide  ; 
The  sire  turns  o'er,  with  patriarchal  grace, 
The  big  ha'-bible,  ance  ®  his  father's  pride  ; 
His  bonnet  reverently  is  laid  aside. 
His  lyart  haffets  '°  wearing  thin  and  bare  ; 
Those  strains  that  once  did  sweet  in  Zion  glide, 
He  wales  **  a  portion  with  judicious  care  ; 
And,  "  Let  us  worship  God,"  he  says,  with  solemn  air. 

They  chant  their  artless  notes  in  simple  guise  ; 
They  tune  their  hearts,  by  far  the  noblest  aim : 
Perhaps  Dundee's  wild-warbHng  measures  rise, 
Or  plaintive  Martyrs,  worthy  of  the  name. 
Or  noble  Elgin  beets  '^  the  heavenward  flame. 
The  sweetest  far  of  Scotia's  holy  lays. 
Compared  with  these,  Italian  trills  are  tame  ; 
The  tickled  ear  no  heartfelt  raptures  raise  ; 
Nae  unison  ha'e  they  with  our  Creator's  praise. 

The  priest-like  father  reads  the  sacred  page  — 
How  Abram  was  the  friend  of  God  on  high  ; 


1  Porridge. 

2  Cow. 

3  Porch. 

*  Well-saved  cheese 

»  Biting. 

0  Twelvemonth. 

7  Flax. 

8  In  flower. 

»  Once. 

10  Gray  temples. 

"  Selects. 

12  Adds  fuel  to. 

ROBERT   BURNS.  259 

Or  Moses  bade  eternal  warfare  wage 
With  Amalek's  ungracious  progeny  ; 
Or  how  the  royal  bard  did  groaning  lie 
Beneath  the  stroke  of  Heaven's  avenging  ire ; 
Or  Job's  pathetic  plaint  an'  waiHng  cry  ; 
Or  rapt  Isaiah's  wild,  seraphic  fire  ; 
Or  other  holy  seers  that  tune  the  sacred  lyre. 

Perhaps  the  Christian  volume  is  the  theme  — 
How  guiltless  blood  for  guilty  man  was  shed  ; 
How  He,  who  bore  in  heaven  the  second  name, 
Had  not  on  earth  whereon  to  lay  His  head  ; 
How  His  first  followers  and  servants  sped. 
The  precepts  sage  they  wrote  to  many  a  land  ; 
How  he,  who  lone  in  Patmos  banished, 
Saw  in  the  sun  a  mighty  angel  stand. 
And  heard  great  Bab'lon's  doom  pronounced  by  Heaven's  command. 

Then,  kneeling  down  to  heaven's  eternal  King, 
The  saint,  the  father,  and  the  husband  prays : 
Hope  "springs  exulting  on  triumphant  wing," 
That  thus  they  all  shall  meet  in  future  days  ; 
There  ever  bask  in  uncreated  rays. 
No  more  to  sigh  or  shed  the  bitter  tear. 
Together  hymning  their  Creator's  praise, 
In  such  society,  yet  still  more  dear ; 
While  circling  time  moves  round  in  an  eternal  sphere. 

Compared  with  this,  how  poor  religion's  pride, 
In  all  the  pomp  of  method  and  of  art, 
When  men  display  to  congregations  wide. 
Devotion's  every  grace,  except  the  heart ! 
The  power  incensed  the  pageant  will  desert. 
The  pompous  strain,  the  sacerdotal  stole  ; 
But,  haply,  in  some  cottage  far  apart, 
May  hear,  well  pleased,  the  language  of  the  soul, 
And  in  His  book  of  life  the  inmates  poor  enroll. 

Then  homeward  all  take  off  their  several  way ; 
The  youngling  cottagers  retire  to  rest ; 
The  parent-pair  their  secret  homage  pay, 
And  proffer  up  to  Heaven  the  warm  request, 


260  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

That  He  who  stills  the  raven's  clam'rous  nest, 
And  decks  the  lily  fair  in  flowery  pride, 
Would  in  the  way  His  wisdom  sees  the  best. 
For  them  and  for  their  little  ones  provide  ; 
But  chiefly  in  their  hearts  with  grace  divine  preside. 

From  scenes  like  these  old  Scotia's  grandeur  springs, 

That  makes  her  loved  at  home,  revered  abroad : 
VPrinces  and  lords  are  but  the  breath  of  kings,    {  A)    J     f    C 
I  "An  honest  man's  the  noblest  work  of  God  ;^ru  V^^^  ^^-^ 
L  And  certes,  in  fair  virtue's  heavenly  road,  -''     r'  '"     (^ 

The  cottage  leaves  the  palace  far  behind  ;  ""  ' 

What  is  a  lordling's  pomp  ?  —  a  cumbrous  load. 

Disguising  oft  the  wretch  of  human  kind, 
Studied  in  arts  of  hell,  in  wickedness  refined ! 

O  Scotia,  my  dear,  my  native  soil. 
For  whom  my  warmest  wish  to  Heaven  is  sent. 
Long  may  thy  hardy  sons  of  rustic  toil 
Be  blest  with  health,  and  peace,  and  sweet  content ! 
And  O,  may  Heaven  their  simple  lives  prevent 
From  luxury's  contagion,  weak  and  vile  ! 
Then,  howe'er  crowns  and  coronets  be  rent, 
A  virtuous  populace  may  rise  the  while, 
And  stand  a  wall  of  fire  around  their  much-loved  isle. 

O  Thou,  who  poured  the  patriotic  tide 
That  streamed  through  Wallace's  undaunted  heart, 
Who  dared  to  nobly  stem  tyrannic  pride. 
Or  nobly  die,  the  second  glorious  part 
(The  patriot's  God  peculiarly  Thou  art, 
His  friend,  inspirer,  guardian,  and  reward!), 
O,  never,  never,  Scotia's  realm  desert ; 
But  still  the  patriot,  and  the  patriot  bard. 
In  bright  succession  raise,  her  ornament  and  guard  ! 


(mMaa 


V 


ROBERT   BURNS.  26* 


EPISTLE   TO   A   YOUNG  FRIEND. 


J  LANG  ha'e  thought,  my  youthfu'  friend, 

A  something  to  have  sent  you, 
Though  it  should  serve  nae  ither  end 

Than  just  a  kind  memento  ; 
But  how  the  subject-theme  may  gang, 

Let  time  an'  chance  determine  ; 
Perhaps  it  may  turn  out  a  sang, 

Perhaps  turn  out  a  sermon. 

Ye'll  try  the  world  fu'  soon,  my  lad, 

An',  Andrew,  dear,  believe  me, 
Ye'll  find  mankind  an  unco  ^  squad. 

An'  muckle  2  they  may  grjeve  ye  : 
For  care  an'  trouble  set  your  thought, 

Ev'n  when  your  end's  attained  ; 
An'  a'  your  views  may  come  to  nought, 

Where  ev'ry  nerve  is  strained. 

I'll  no  say  men  are  villains  a' ; 

The  real,  hardened  wicked, 
Wha  ha'e  nae  check  but  human  law. 

Are  to  a  few  restricked  ; 
But,  och  !  mankind  are  unco  ^  weak. 

An'  little  to  be  trusted  ; 
If  self  the  wavering  balance  shake, 

It's  rarely  right  adjusted  ! 

Y«t  they  wha  fa'  in  fortune's  strife, 

Their  fate  we  should  na  censure. 
For  still  th'  important  end  of  life 

They  equally  may  answer  ; 
A  man  may  ha'e  an  honest  heart, 

Tho'  poortith  *  hourly  stare  him  ; 
A  man  may  tak'  a  neibor's  part. 

Yet  ha'e  nae  cash  to  spare  him. 

Aye  fi-ee,  aff  han'  your  story  tell. 

When  wi'  a  bosom  crony  : 
But  still  keep  something  to  yoursel' 

Ye  scarcely  tell  to  ony. 
Conceal  yoursel'  as  weel's  ye  can 

Frae  critical  dissection  ; 
But  keek 5  through  ev'ry  other  man, 

Wi'  sharpened,  sly  inspection. 

The  sacred  lowe«  o'  weel-placed  love, 

Luxuriantly  indulge  it ; 
But  never  tempt  th'  illicit  rove, 

Tho'  naething  should  divulge  it : 


I  waive  the  quantum  o*  the  sin. 

The  hazard  of  concealing ; 
But,  och  !  it  hardens  a'  within. 

An'  petrifies  the  feeling ! 

To  catch  Dame  Fortune's  golden  smiley 

Assiduous  wait  upon  her ; 
An'  gather  gear  ^  by  ev'ry  wile 

That's  justified  by  honor ; 
Not  for  to  hide  it  in  a  hedge. 

Nor  for  a  train-attendant. 
But  for  the  glorious  privilege 

Of  being  independent. 

The  fear  o'  hell's  a  hangman's  whip 

To  hand  the  wretch  in  order  ; 
But  where  ye  feel  your  honor  grip, 

Let  that  aye  be  your  border ; 
Its  slightest  touches,  instant  pause. 

Debar  a'  side  pretences ; 
An'  resolutely  keep  its  laws, 

Uncaring  consequences. 

The  great  Creator  to  revere 

Must  sure  become  the  creature  ; 
But  still  the  preaching  cant  forbear. 

An'  ev'n  the  rigid  feature  : 
Yet  ne'er  with  wits  profane  to  range, 
Be  complaisance  extended ; 
i     An  atheist  laugh's  a  poor  excliange   ^ 
V        For  Deity  offended  1  _!/ 

When  ranting  round  in  pleasure's  ring, 

Religion  may  be  blinded ; 
Or  if  she  gi'e  a  random  sting, 

It  may  be  little  minded : 
But  when  on  life  we're  tempest  driven, 

A  conscience  but  a  canker, 
A  correspondence  fixed  wi'  Heaven 

Is  sure  a  noble  anchor  ! 

Adieu  !  dear,  amiable  youth, 

Your  heart  can  ne'er  be  wanting  ! 
May  prudence,  fortitude,  an'  truth 

Erect  your  brow  undaunting  ! 
In  ploughman  phrase,  "God  send  you  speed, ' 

Still  daily  to  grow  wiser : 
An'  may  you  better  reck  the  rede  ^ 

Than  ever  did  th'  adviser  1 


I 


1  Strange. 
«  Flame. 


2  Much. 
1  Wealth. 


3  Very. 

*  Heed,  counsel. 


Poverty. 


»look. 


262 


HAND-BOOK  OF  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 


TO  A   MOUSE, 

ON   TURNING   HER   UP   WITH   THE   PLOUGH,    NOVEMBER,    1785. 


Wee,  sleekit,  cow'rin',  tim'rous  beastie, 
O,  what  a  panic's  in  thy  breastie  ! 
Thou  need  na  start  awa'  sae  hasty, 

Wi'  bickering  brattle  !  1 
I  wad  be  laith  2  to  rin  an'  chase  thee, 

Wi'  murd'ring  prattle  !  ^ 

I'm  truly  sorry  man's  dominion 
Has  broken  nature's  social  union, 
An'  justifies  that  ill  opinion. 

Which  makes  thee  startle 
At  me,  thy  poor  earth-born  companion. 

An'  fellow-mortal ! 

I  doubt  na,  whyles,*  but  thou  may  thieve  ; 
What  then  ?  poor  beastie,  thou  maun  '^  live 
A  daimen  icker  in  a  thrave  "^ 

'S  a  sma'  request ; 
I'll  get  a  blessin'  wi'  the  lave,^ 

An'  never  miss't  ! 

Thy  wee  bit  housie,  too,  in  ruin  ! 
Its  silly  wa's  the  win's  are  strewin'  ! 
An'  naething,  now,  to  big  a  new  ane, 

O'  foggage  green  !  * 
An'  bleak  December's  winds  ensuin' 

Baith  9  snell  i"  an'  keen  ! 


Thou  saw  the  fields  laid  bare  an'  waste, 
An'  weary  winter  comin'  fast, 
An'  cozie  here,  beneath  the  blast, 

Thou  thought  to  dwell. 
Till,  crash !  the  cruel  coulter  past 

Out  thro'  thy  cell. 

That  wee  bit  heap  o'  leaves  an'  stibble 
Has  cost  thee  mony  a  weary  nibble  ! 
Now  thou's  tum'd  out  for  a'  thy  trouble, 

But"  house  or  hald,i2 
To  thole  12  the  winter's  sleety  dribble,  1* 

An'  cranreuch  cauld  !  15 

But,  Mousie,  thou  art  no  thy  lane. 
In  proving  foresight  may  be  vain : 
The  best  laid  schemes  o'  mice  an'  men. 

Gang  aft  a-gley,^'' 
An'  lea'e  us  nought  but  grief  an'  pain. 

For  promised  joy. 

Still  thou  art  blest,  compared  wi'  me  ! 
The  present  only  toucheth  thee : 
But,  och  !  I  backward  cast  my  e'e 

On  prospects  drear ! 
An'  forward,  tho'  I  canna  see, 

I  guess  an'  fear. 


TO   A   MOUNTAIN   DAISY, 

ON    TURNING    DOWN    ONE   WITH    A    PLOUGH,    APRIL,    I786. 


Wee,  modest,  crimson-tipped  flower, 

Thou's  met  me  in  an  evil  hour  ; 

For  I  maun  *^  crush  amang  the  stoure  ^^ 

Thy  slender  stem : 
To  spare  thee  now  is  past  my  power, 

Thou  bonnie  gem. 


Cauld  blew  the  bitter,  biting  north 
Upon  thy  early,  humble  birth  ; 
Yet  cheerfully  thou  glinted  ^^  forth 

Amid  the  storm. 
Scarce  reared  above  the  parent  earth 

Thy  tender  form. 


Alas  !  it's  no  thy  neibor  sweet. 
The  bonnie  lark,  companion  meet. 
Bending  thee  'mang  the  dewy  weet ! 

Wi'  speckled  breast. 
When  upward^springing,  blythe  to  greet 

The  purpling  east. 


The  flaunting  flowei's  our  gardens  yield. 
High  sheltering  woods  an'  wa's  maun  ^  shield : 
But  thou,  beneath  the  random  bield^l 

O'  clod  or  stane. 
Adorns  the  histie  22  stibble -field. 

Unseen,  alane. 


1  Hurrying  speed.  *  Loath.  8  Plough-stick. 

"  An  ear  of  com  now  and  then  In  twenty-four  sheaves. 

8  Rank  grass.  »  Both.  10  Sharp. 

13  Endure.  l*  Drizzle.         is  Hoar  frost. 

«  Dust  19  Glanced.       2"  Must. 


*  Sometimes.  '  Must. 

7  Rest. 
11  Without.  12  Hold. 

16  Go  oft  wrong,      i^  Must. 
21  Shelter.  22  Dry. 


ROBERT   BURNS. 


^3 


There,  in  thy  scanty  mantle  clad, 
Thy  snawie  bosom  sunward  spread. 
Thou  lifts  thy  unassuming  head 

In  humble  guise : 
But  now  the  share  uptears  thy  bed. 

And  low  thou  lies  1 

Sucli  is  the  fate  of  artless  maid. 
Sweet  flow'ret  of  the  rural  shade  ! 
By  love's  simplicity  betrayed, 

And  guileless  trust, 
Till  she,  like  thee,  all  soil'd,  is  laid 

Low  i'  the  dust. 

Such  is  the  fate  of  simple  bard. 

On  life's  rough  ocean  luckless  starred ! 

Unskilful  he  to  note  the  card 


1    f)    ^-0>VMW    U<»T^4' 


t^- 


Of  prudent  lore, 
Till  billows  rage,  and  gales  blow  hard, 
And  whelm  him  o'ej  ! 

Such  fate  to  suffering  worth  is  given, 

Who  long  with  wants  and  woes  has  striven. 

By  human  pride  or  cunning  driven 

To  misery's  brink, 
Till  wrenched  of  every  stay  but  Heaven 

He,  ruined,  sink ! 

Even  thou  who  moum'st  the  Daisy's  fate, 
That  fate  is  thine  —  no  distant  date  ; 
Stern  Ruin's  ploughshare  drives,  elate, 

Full  on  thy  bloom, 
Till  crushed  beneath  the  furrow's  weight. 

Shall  be  thy  doom. 


-^r^OA 


TO  MARY^N 


HEAVEN. 


[  Thou  Hng'ring  star,  with  less'ning  ray, 

That  lov'st  to  greet  the  early  mom, 
Again  thou  usher 'st  in  the  day 

My  Mary  from  my  soul  was  torn. 
O,  Mary  !  dear  departed  shade  ! 

Where  is  thy  place  of  blissful  rest  ? 
Saest  thou  thy  lover  lowly  laid  ? 
Hear'st  thou  the  groans  that  rend  his 
breast  ? 


Ayr,  gurgling,  kissed  his  pebbled  shore, 

O'erhung  with  wild  woods,    thick'ning 
green : 
The  fragrant  birch,  and  hawthorn  hoar. 

Twined  amorous  round  the  raptured  scene  ; 
The  flowers  sprang  wanton  to  be  prest, 

The  birds  sang  love  on  every  spray  — 
Till  too,  too  soon,  the  glowing  west 

Proclaimed  the  speed  of  winged  day. 


That  sacred  hour  can  I  forget? 

Caa  I  forget  the  hallowed  grove, 
Whe^e  by  the  winding  Ayr  we  met. 

To  live  one  day  of  parting  love  ? 
Eternity  will  not  efface 

Those  records  dear  of  transports  past. 
Thy  image  at  our  last  embrace ; 

Ah,  little  thought  we  'twas  our  last ! 


Still  o'er  these  scenes  my  mem'ry  wakes, 

And  fondly  broods  with  miser  care  ! 
Time  but  th'  impression  stronger  makes. 

As  streams  their  channels  deeper  wear. 
My  Mary,  dear  departed  shade ! 

Where  is  thy  place  of  blissful  rest  ? 
Seest  thou  thy  lover  lowly  laid  ? 

Hear'st  thou  the  groans  that  rend  his  breast?  - 

Til^yOiT^yy^^^VQ^  a'  that,  an'  a'  thai 


Is  there,  for  honest  poverty. 

That  hangs  his  head,  an'  a'  that? 
The  coward  slave  we  pass  him  by  ; 

We  dare  be  poor  for  a'  that ! 
For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that. 

Our  toil's  obscure,  an'  a'  that, 
The  rank  is  but  the  guinea's  stamp. 

The  man's  the  gowdi  for  a'  that. 


What  tho'  on  hamely  fare  we  dine. 

Wear  hoddin  *  gray,  an'  a'  that ; 
Gi'e  fools  their  silks,  an'  knaves  their  wine, 

A  man's  a  man  for  a'  that ; 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

Their  tinsel  show,  an'  a'  that ; 
The  honest  man,  though  e'er  sae  poor, 

Is  king  o'  men  for  a'  that. 


1  Gold. 


*  Coarse  cloth. 


264 


HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 


Ye  see  yon  birkie.^  ca'd  a  lord, 

Wha  struts,  an'  stares,  an'  a'  that ; 
Tho'  hundcpds  worship  at  his  word. 

He's  but  a  coofs  for  a'  that ; 
For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that. 

His  ribboi,  star,  an'  a'  that. 
The  man  of  independent  mind. 

He  looks  an'  laughs  at  a'  that. 

A  prince  can  mak'  a  belted  knight, 
A  marquis,  duke,  an'  a'  that ; 

But  an  honest  man's  aboon  ^  his  might ; 
Gude  faith,  he  manna  fa'*  that. 


For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that. 

Their  dignities,  an'  a'  that, 
The  pith  o'  sense,  an   pride  o'  worth, 

Are  higher  ranks  than  a'  that. 

Then  let  us  pray  that  come  it  may. 

As  come  it  will  for  a'  that. 
That  sense  an'  worth,  o'er  a'  the  eartl^ 

May  bear  the  gree,''  an'  a'  that 
For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that, 

It's  coming  yet,  for  a'  that, 
That  man  to  man,  the  warld  o'er, 

Shall  brothers  be  for  a'  that 


BRUCE'S   ADDRESS. 


Scots,  wha  ha'e  wi '  Wallace  bled, 
Scots  wham  Bruce  has  aften  led  ; 
Welcome  to  your  gory  bed. 
Or  to  victory  I 

Now's  the  day,  and  now's  the  hour  ; 
See  the  front  o'  battle  lour ; 
See  approach  proud  Edward's  power - 
Chains  and  slavery  ! 

Wha  will  be  a  traitor  knave  ? 
Wha  can  fill  a  coward's  grave  ? 
Wha  sae  base  as  be  a  slave  ? 
Let  him  turn  and  flee  ■ 


Wha  for  Scotland's  king  and  law 
Freedom's  sword  will  strongly  draw, 
Freeman  stand,  or  freeman  fa', 
Let  him  follow  me  t 

By  oppression's  woes  and  pains  ! 
By  your  sons  in  servile  chains  ! 
We  will  drain  our  dearest  veins. 
But  they  shall  be  free  ! 

Lay  the  proud  usurpers  low ! 
Tyrants  fall  in  every  foe  ! 
Liberty's  in  every  blow  ! 
Let  us  do,  or  die  ! 


ROBERT    HALL. 

The  Rev.  Robert  Hall  was  born  in  1764.  and  was  educated  for  the  ministry  of  the  Bap- 
tist Church  at  Bristol.  He  was  also  a  student  for  a  time  at  Aberdeen,  where  he  formed  a 
lasting  intimacy  with  Sir  James  Mackintgsh.  He  is  the  author  of  six  volumes  of  sermons, 
which  are  remarkable  for  power,  eloquence,  and  purity  of  style.  At  one  period  his  mind 
was  beclouded,  his  nervous  system  having  been  weakened  by  too  incessant  study  ;  his  rea- 
son was  restored,  however,  and  he  preached  many  years  afterwards.  Probably  no  clergy- 
man among  English  Dissenters  ha.s  had  a  higher  or  more  enduring  reputation.  He  died  in 
1831  at  Bristol. 

[Extract  from  a  Sermon  on  the  Death  of  the  Princess  Charlotte.] 

It  has  been  the  approved  practice  of  the  most  enlightened  teach- 
ers of  religion  to  watch  for  favorable  occasions  to  impress  the  mind 
with  the  lessons  of  wisdom  and  piety ;  with  a  view  to  which  they 


1  Smart  fellow. 


Fool. 


Above. 


Must  not  attempt.  ^  Supremacy. 


ROBERT   HALL.  265 

have  been  wont  to  advert  to  recent  events  of  an  interesting  order, 
that,  by  striking  in  with  a  train  of  reflection  already  commenced, 
they  might  the  more  easily  and  forcibly  insinuate  the  instruction  it 
was  their  wish  to  convey.  A  sound  discretion,  it  must  be  acknowl- 
edged, is  requisite  to  make  the  selection.  To  descend  to  the  details 
and  occurrences  of  private  life  would  seldom  consist  with  the  dig- 
nified decorum  suited  to  religious  assemblies  :  the  events  to  which 
the  attention  is  directed  on  such  occasions  should  be  of  a  nature 
somewhat  extraordinary,  and  calculated  to  produce  a  deep  and  perma- 
nent impression.  Admonition,  imparted  under  such  circumstances, 
is  styled,  in  Scripture,  a  word  in  season,  or,  as  it  is  emphatically 
expressed  in  the  original,  a  word  on  the  wheels,  denoting  the  pecu- 
liar facility  with  which  it  makes  its  way  to  the  heart. 

In  such  a  situation,  the  greatest  difficulty  a  speaker  has  to  sur- 
mount is  already  obviated  ;  attention  is  awake,  an  interest  is  excited, 
and  all  that  remains  is  to  lead  the  mind,  already  sufficiently  suscep- 
tible, to  objects  of  permanent  utility.  He  originates  nothing ;  it  is 
not  so  much  he  that  speaks,  as  the  events  which  speak  for  them- 
selves ;  he  only  presumes  to  interpret  their  language,  and  to  guide 
the  confused  emotions  of  a  sorrowful  and  swollen  heart  into  the 
channels  of  piety.  Let  them  turn  their  eyes,  then,  for  a  moment, 
to  this  illustrious  princess,  who,  while  she  lived,  concentred  in  her- 
self whatever  distinguishes  the  higher  orders  of  society,  and  may 
now  be  considered  as  addressing  them  from  the  tomb. 

Born  to  inherit  the  most  illustrious  monarchy  in  the  world,  and 
united  at  an  early  period  to  the  object  of  her  choice,  whose  virtues 
amply  justified  her  preference,  she  enjoyed  (what  is  not  always  the 
privilege  of  that  rank)  the  highest  connubial  fehcity,  and  had  the 
prospect  of  combining  all  the  tranquil  enjoyments  of  private  life 
with  the  splendor  of  a  royal  station.  Placed  on  the  summit  of  soci- 
ety, to  her  every  eye  was  turned,  in  her  every  hope  was  centred,  and 
nothing  was  wanting  to  complete  her  felicity,  except  perpetuity.  To 
a  grandeur  of  mind  suited  to  her  royal  birth  and  lofty  destination 
she  joined  an  exquisite  taste  for  the  beauties  of  nature  and  the 
charms  of  retirement,  where,  far  from  the  gaze  of  the  multitude,  and 
the  frivolous  agitations  of  fashionable  life,  she  employed  her  hours 
in  visiting,  with  her  distinguished  consort,  the  cottages  of  the  poor, 
in  improving  her  virtues,  in  perfecting  her  reason,  and  acquiring  the 
knowledge  best  adapted  to  qualify  her  for  the  possession  of  power 
and  the  cares  of  empire.  One  thing  only  was  wanting  to  render  our 
satisfaction  complete  in  the  prospect  of  the  accession  of  such  a 


266  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

princess ;  it  was  that  she  might  become  the  living  mother  of  chil- 
dren. The  long-wished-for  moment  at  length  arrived ;  but  alas  ! 
the  event  anticipated  with  such  eagerness  will  form  the  most  melan- 
choly part  of  our  history. 

It  is  no  reflection  on  this  amiable  princess  to  suppose  that,  in  her 
early  dawn,  with  the  dew  of  her  youth  so  fresh  upon  her,  she  antici- 
pated a  long  series  of  years,  and  expected  to  be  led  through  succes- 
sive scenes  of  enchantment,  rising  above  each  other  in  fascination 
and  beauty.  It  is  natural  to  suppose  she  identified  herself  with  this 
great  nation,  which  she  was  born  to  govern,  and  that,  while  she 
contemplated  its  preeminent  lustre  in  arts  and  in  arms,  its  com- 
merce encircling  the  globe,  its  colonies  diffused  through  both  hemi- 
spheres, and  the  beneficial  effects  of  its  institutions  extending  to  the 
whole  earth,  she  considered  them  so  many  component  parts  of  her 
grandeur.  Her  heart,  we  may  well  conceive,  would  often  be  ruffled 
with  emotions  of  trembling  ecstasy,  when  she  reflected  that  it  was 
her  province  to  live  entirely  for  others,  to  compose  the  felicity  of  a 
great  people,  to  move  in  a  sphere  which  would  afford  scope  for  the 
exercise  of  philanthropy  the  most  enlarged,  of  wisdom  the  most  en- 
Hghtened,  and  that,  while  others  are  doomed  to  pass  through  the 
world  in  obscurity,  she  was  to  supply  the  materials  for  history,  and 
to  impart  that  impulse  to  society  which  was  to  decide  the  destiny 
of  future  generations.  Fired  with  the  ambition  of  equalling,  or  sur- 
passing, the  most  distinguished  of  her  predecessors,  she  probably 
did  not  despair  of  reviving  the  remembrance  of  the  brightest  parts 
of  their  story,  and  of  once  more  attaching  the  epoch  of  British  glory 
to  the  annals  of  a  female  reign.  It  is  needless  to  add  that  the  nation 
went  with  her,  and  probably  outstripped  her,  in  these  delightful  an- 
ticipations. We  fondly  hoped  that  a  life  so  inestimable  would  be 
protracted  to  a  distant  period,  and  that,  after  diffusing  the  blessings 
of  a  just  and  enlightened  administration,  and,  being  surrounded  by 
a  numerous  progeny,  she  would,  gradually,  in  a  good  old  age,  sink 
under  the  horizon,  amidst  the  embraces  of  her  family,  and  the  bene- 
dictions of  her  country.  But  alas  !  these  delightful  visions  are  fled  ; 
and  what  do  we  behold  in  their  room  but  the  funeral  pall  and  shroud, 
a  palace  in  mourning,  a  nation  in  tears,  and  the  shadow  of  death 
settled  over  both  like  a  cloud  !  O,  the  unspeakable  vanity  of  human 
hopes  !  the  incurable  blindness  of  man  to  futurity !  ever  doomed  to 
grasp  at  shadows,  to  seize  with  avidity  what  turns  to  dust  and  ashes 
in  his  hands,  to  sow  the  wind,  and  reap  the  whirlwind.  How  must 
the  heart  of  the  royal  parent  be  torn  in  anguish  on  this  occasion ! 


ROBERT   HALL.  26/ 

Deprived  of  a  daughter  who  combined  every  quality  suited  to  engage 
his  affection  and  elevate  his  hopes,  —  an  only  child,  the  heir  of  his 
throne,  and  doomed  apparently  to  behold  the  sceptre  pass  from  his 
posterity  into  other  hands,  —  his  sorrow  must  be  such  as  words  are 
inadequate  to  portray.  Nor  is  it  possible  to  withhold  our  tender 
sympathy  from  the  unhappy  mother,  who,  in  addition  to  the  wounds 
she  has  received  by  the  loss  of  her  nearest  relations,  and  by  still 
more  trying  vicissitudes,  has  witnessed  the  extinction  of  her  last 
hope  in  the  sudden  removal  of  one  in  whose  bosom  she  might  nat- 
urally hope  to  repose  her  griefs,  and  find  a  peaceful  haven  from  the 
storms  of  life  and  the  tossings  of  the  ocean.  But,  above  all,  the 
illustrious  consort  of  this  lamented  princess  is  entitled  to  the  deep- 
est commiseration.  How  mysterious  are  the  ways  of  Providence 
in  rendering  the  virtues  of  this  distinguished  personage  the  source 
of  his  greatest  trials  !  By  these  he  merited  the  distinction  to  which 
monarchs  aspired  in  vain,  and  by  these  he  exposed  himself  to  a 
reverse  of  fortune  the  severity  of  which  can  only  be  , adequately 
estimated  by  this  illustrious  mouraer.  These  virtues,  however,  will 
not  be  permitted  to  lose  their  reward.  They  will  find  it  in  the  grate- 
ful attachment  of  the  British  nation,  in  the  remembrance  of  his 
having  contributed  the  principal  share  to  the  happiness  of  the  most 
amiable  and  exalted  of  women,  and,  above  all,  we  humbly  hope, 
when  the  agitations  of  time  shall  cease,  in  a  reunion  with  the  object 
of  his  attachment  before  the  presence  of  Him  who  will  wipe  every 
tear  from  the  eye. 

The  fruition  of  religious  objects  calms  and  purifies  as  much  as  it 
delights ;  it  strengthens,  instead  of  enervating,  the  mind,  which  it 
fills  without  agitating,  and,  by  settling  it  on  its  proper  basis,  diffuses 
an  unspeakable  repose  through  all  its  powers. 

As  the  connection  between  means  and  ends  is  not  so  indissolubly 
fixed  as  to  preclude  the  possibility  of  disappointment,  and  the  battle 
is  not  always  to  the  strong,  nor  the  race  to  the  swift,  nor  riches  to 
men  of  understanding,  the  votary  of  the  world  is  never  secure  of 
his  object,  which  frequently  mocks  his  pursuit  by  vanishing  at  the 
moment  when  he  is  just  on  the  point  of  seizing  it.  He  often  pos- 
sesses not  even  the  privilege  of  failing  with  impunity,  and  has  no 
medium  left  between  complete  success  and  infallible  destruction. 
In  the  struggles  of  ambition,  in  violent  competitions  for  power  or 
for  glory,  how  slender  the  partition  betwixt  the  widest  extremes  of 
fortune  !  and  how  few  the  steps,  and  apparently  slight  the  circum- 
stances, which  sever  the  throne  from  the  prison,  the  palace  from  the 


268 


HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 


tomb!  So  Tibni  died,  says  the  sacred  historian,  with  inimitable 
simplicity,  and  Omri  reigned.  He  who  makes  the  care  of  his  eter- 
nal interests  his  chief  pursuit  is  exposed  to  no  such  perils  and 
vicissitudes.  His  hopes  will  be  infallibly  crowned  with  success. 
The  soil  on  which  he  bestows  his  labor  will  infinitely  more  than 
recompense  his  care  ;  and,  however  disproportioned  the  extent  and 
duration  of  his  efforts  to  the  magnitude  of  their  object,  however 
insufficient  to  secure  it  by  their  intrinsic  vigor,  the  faithfulness  of 
God  is  pledged  to  bring  them  to  a  prosperous  issue. 


WILLIAM    ROBERT   SPENCER. 

The  Hon.  William  Robert  Spencer,  born  in  1770,  was  the  grandson  of  Charles,  the  sec- 
ond Duke  of  Marlborough.  He  was  the  author  of  some  spirited  translations  and  of  some 
ballads.  The  composition  that  follows  has  been  so  much  admired  that  it  has  appeared  in 
nearly  every  collection  made  since  it  was  written.  The  little  that  is  known  of  the  autlior  is 
not  much  to  his  credit.     He  died  at  Paris  in  1834. 


BETH   GELERT,    OR   THE   GRAVE   OF   THE   GREYHOUND. 


The  spearmen  heard  the  bugle  sound. 
And  cheerily  smiled  the  mom, 

And  many  a  brach  and  many  a  hound 
Obeyed  Llewelyn's  horn. 

And  still  he  blew  a  louder  blast. 

And  gave  a  lustier  cheer  ; 
*'  Come,  Gelert,  come  —  wert  never  last 

Llewelyn's  horn  to  hear. 

"  O,  where  does  faithful  Gelert  roam  — 

The  flower  of  all  his  race, 
So  true,  so  brave,  a  lamb  at  home, 

A  lion  in  the  chase  ?  " 


That  day  Llewelyn  little  loved 

The  chase  of  hart  and  hare  ; 
And  scant  and  small  the  booty  proved. 

For  Gelert  was  not  there. 

Unpleased,  Llewelyn  homeward  hied, 

When,  near  the  portal  seat. 
His  truant  Gelert  he  espied, 

BoLinding  his  lord  to  greet. 

But,  when  he  gained  his  castle  door, 

Aghast  the  chieftain  stood  ; 
The  hound  all  o'er  was  smeared  with  gore ; 

His  lips,  his  fangs,  ran  blood. 


'Twas  only  at  Llewelyn's  board 

The  faithful  Gelert  fed ; 
He  watched,  he  served,  he  cheered  his  lord. 

And  sentinelled  his  bed. 


Llewelyn  gazed  with  fierce  surprise, 
Unused  such  looks  to  meet ; 

His  favorite  checked  his  joyful  guise. 
And  crouched,  and  licked  his  feet 


In  sooth  he  was  a  peerless  hound. 

The  gift  of  royal  John  ; 
But  now  no  Gelert  could  be  found. 

And  all  the  chase  rode  on. 


Onward,  in  haste,  Llewelyn  passed, 

And  on  went  Gelert  too  ; 
And  still,  where'er  his  eyes  he  cast. 

Fresh  blood-gouts  shocked  his  view. 


And  now,  as  o'er  the  rocks  and  dells 

The  gallant  chidings  rise. 
All  Snowdon's  craggy  chaos  yells 

The  many-mingled  cries. 


O'erturned  his  infant's  bed  he  found, 
With  blood-stained  covert  rent. 

And  all  around  the  walls  and  ground 
With  recent  blood  besprent 


WILLIAM   ROBERT    SPENCER.  —  WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH,      269 


He  called  his  child  ;  no  voice  replied  ; 

He  searched  with  terror  wild  ; 
Blood,  blood,  he  found  on  every  side, 

But  nowhere  found  his  child. 


Ah,  what  was  then  Llewelyn's  pain  / 
For  now  the  truth  was  clear  : 

His  gallant  hound  the  wolf  had  slain 
To  save  Llewelyn's  heir. 


"  Hell-hound,  my  child's  by  thee  devoured. 

The  frantic  father  cried, 
And  to  the  hi'.t  his  vengeful  sword 

He  plunged  in  Gelert's  side. 


Vain,  vain  was  all  Llewelyn's  woe  ; 

"  Best  of  thy  kind,  adieu  ; 
The  frantic  blow  which  laid  thee  low 

This  heart  shall  ever  ru*" 


His  suppliant  looks,  as  prone  he  fell. 

No  pity  could  impart ; 
But  still  his  GSlert's  dying  yell 

Passed  heavy  o'er  his  heart. 


And  now  a  gallant  tomb  they  raise, 
With  costly  sculpture  decked. 

And  marbles  storied  with  his  praise 
Poor  Gelert's  bones  protect. 


Aroused  by  Gfelert's  dying  yell. 
Some  slumberer  wakened  nigh : 

What  words  the  parent's  joy  could  tell 
To  hear  his  infant's  cry  ! 


There  never  could  the  spearman  pass, 

Or  forester,  unmoved  ; 
There  oft  the  tear-besprinkled  grass 

Llewelyn's  sorrow  proved. 


Concealed  beneath  a  tumbled  heap 
His  hurried  search  had  missed. 

All  glowing  from  his  rosy  sleep, 
The  cherub  boy  he  kissed. 


And  there  he  hung  his  horn  and  spear, 

And  there,  as  evening  fell. 
In  fancy's  ear  he  oft  would  hear 

Poor  Gelert's  dying  yell. 


Nor  scathe  had  he,  nor  harm,  nor  dread. 
But,  the  same  couch  beneath, 

Lay  a  gaunt  wolfj  all  torn  and  dead, 
Tremendous  still  in  death. 


And,  till  great  Snowdon's  rocks  grow  old. 
And  cease  the  storm  to  brave. 

The  consecrated  spot  shall  hold 
The  name  of  "  Gelert's  Grave." 


WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH. 


William  Wordsworth  was  bom  in  Cumberland  in  1770.  He  was  sent  to  Cambridge  by  his 
uncles  in  1787,  where  he  studied  the  classics  and  the  Italian  language,  and  read  what  his 
fancy  chose  ;  but  as  he  neglected  mathematics,  his  rank  was  not  high.  He  did  not  incline 
either  to  the  church  or  the  bar,  but  determined  to  make  his  slender  patrimony  last  till  the 
public  should  acknowledge  his  merits  as  a  poet.  In  youth  he  was  a  furious  republican,  ap- 
proving even  of  the  French  Revolution  ;  in  his  age  he  opposed  every  just  measure  of  politi- 
cal reform  in  his  own  country  —  a  striking  illustration  of  Emerson's  saying,  that  "a  con- 
servative is  a  radical  gone  to  seed."  During  the  poet's  long  life  he  had  changed  his  resi- 
dence several  times,  but  he  settled  at  last  in  the  place  with  which  his  name  is  now  forever 
connected  —  Rydal  Mount.  His  sister  Dora  was  his  constant  companion,  the  complement 
of  his  nature,  and  more  truly  poetical  in  feeling  than  he.  Without  her  his  verses  would 
probably  have  been  still  more  like  the  burlesque  in  Smith's  Rejected  Addresses :  — 

"My  brother  Jack  was  nine  in  May, 
And  I  was  eight  on  New- Year's  day,"  &c.,  &c. 

Doubtless  there  is  a  poatry  as  well  as  a  beauty  in  common  things ;  but  the  early  theory  and 
practice  of  Wordsworth  would  make  no  distinction  between  a  village  gala  day  and  an  old- 
wife's  washing  day,  —  between  Bonaparte  after  Waterloo,  with  a  continent  lost,  and  a  fisher- 
man with  a  broken  net  or  a  swamped  boat.  That  Wordsworth  came  to  greatness  was  not 
by  following  to  absurdity  his  early  notions,  but  by  preserving  his  severe  simplicity  of  style. 


270  HAND-BOOK   OF  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

while  he  raised  his  eyes  to  higher  ideal  subjects,  and  by  rejecting,  as  unworthy  of  the  muse, 
the  mean  and  trivial  affairs  which  all  people  know  and  experience,  but  do  not  care  to  see  set 
down,  with  or  without  rhyme. 

The  friendship  of  our  author  for  Coleridge  and  Southey  forms  a  prominent  feature  in  his 
life,  for  which  the  biographies  must  be  consulted.  He  was  happily  married,  and  it  was  to 
his  wife,  after  three  years,  that  he  addressed  the  charming  little  poem,  — 

"She  was  a  phantom  of  delight,"  &c. 
He  died  in  his  eightieth  year,  having  passed  a  serene  and  honored  old  age.  It  is  too  soon, 
perhaps,  to  say  what  is  to  be  his  place  among  poets.  For  many  of  the  minor  poems  we  can 
predict  the  affectionate  regard  of  generations.  In  proportion  as  readers  attain  to  a  certain 
spiritual  height,  their  admiration  for  Wordsworth  as  a  philosophic  poet  must  increase.  We 
doubt  whether  his  longer  poems,  especially  The  Excursion,  which,  as  Lord  ByTon  says,  is  — 

"Writ  in  a  manner  that  is  my  aversion," 
deserve  to  be  or  ever  will  be  popular.     The  poet  has  been  too  impartial :  like  the  sun,  he 
gilds  a  cow-shed  as  soon  as  a  palace  ;  whereas  the  function  of  the  writer,  according  to  Em- 
erson, is  to  select  the  "  eminent  and  characteristic  experiences." 

Wordsworth's  complete  poems,  in  seven  volumes,  are  included  in  the  Pickering  edition. 

ODE. 

INTIMATIONS   OF   IMMORTALITY    FROM    RECOLLECTIONS   OF  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

The  child  is  father  of  the  man  ; 
And  I  could  wish  my  days  to  be 
Bound  each  to  each  by  natural  piety. 

I. 

There  was  a  time  when  meadow,  grove,  and  stream, 
The  earth,  and  every  common  sight, 

To  me  did  seem 

Apparelled  in  celestial  light, 
The  glory  and  the  freshness  of  a  dream. 
It  is  not  now  as  it  hath  been  of  yore  ; 

Turn  wheresoe'er  I  may, 

By  night  or  day, 
The  things  which  I  have  seen  I  now  can  see  no  more. 


The  rainbow  comes  and  goes, 

And  lovely  is  the  rose. 

The  moon  doth  with  delight 
Look  round  her  when  the  heavens  are  bare  ; 

Waters,  on  a  starry  night, 

Are  beautiful  and  fair  ; 
The  sunshine  is  a  glorious  birth  ; 
But  yet  I  know,  where'er  I  go. 
That  there  hath  passed  away  a  glory  from  the  earth. 


WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH.  27I 


V. 


Our  birth  is  but  a  sleep  and  a  forgetting  ; 
The  soul  that  rises  with  us  —  our  life's  star  — 

Hath  had  elsewhere  its  setting, 
And  Cometh  from  afar, 

Not  in  entire  forgetfulnesS;, 

And  not  in  utter  nakedness. 
But  trailing  clouds  of  glory  do  we  come 

From  God,  who  is  our  home. 
Heaven  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy  ; 
Shades  of  the  prison-house  begin  to  close 

Upon  the  growing  boy  ; 
But  He  beholds  the  light,  and  whence  it  flows, 

He  sees  it  in  his  joy  ; 
The  youth  who  daily  farther  from  the  east 

Must  travel  still  is  nature's  priest 

And  by  the  vision  splendid 

Is  on  his  way  attended  ; 
At  length  the  man  perceives  it  die  away, 
And  fade  into  the  light  of  common  day. 

VI. 

Earth  fills  her  lap  with  pleasures  of  her  own  ; 
Yearnings  she  hath  in  her  own  natural  kind. 
And,  even  with  something  of  a  mother's  mind, 

And  no  unworthy  aim, 

The  homely  nurse  doth  all  she  can 
To  make  her  foster-child,  her  inmate  man, 

Forget  the  glories  he  hath  known. 
And  that  imperial  palace  whence  he  came. 

fx. 

O,  joy  !  that  in  our  embers 
Is  something  that  doth  live. 
That  nature  yet  remembers 
What  was  so  fugitive. 
The  thought  of  our  past  years  in  me  doth  breed 
Perpetual  benediction  :  not,  indeed. 
For  that  which  is  most  worthy  to  be  blest. 
Delight  and  liberty,  the  simple  creed 


2/2  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

Of  childhood,  whether  busy  or  at  rest, 
With  new-fledged  hope  still  fluttering  in  his  breast ; 
Not  for  thee  I  raise 
The  song  of  thanks  and  praise  ; 
But  for  those  obstinate  questionings 
Of  sense  and  outward  things, 
Fallings  from  us,  vanishings  ; 
Blank  misgivings  of  a  creature 
Moving  about  in  worlds  not  realized, 
High  instincts  before  which  our  mortal  nature 
Did  tremble  like  a  guilty  thing  surprised  : 

But  for  those  first  affections. 
Those  shadowy  recollections. 
Which,  be  they  what  they  may. 
Are  yet  the  fountain  light  of  all  our  day, 
Are  yet  a  master  light  of  all  our  seeing  ; 

Uphold  us,  cherish,  and  have  power  to  make 
Our  noisy  years  seem  moments  in  the  being 
Of  the  eternal  silence  ;  truths  that  wake 

To  perish  never ; 
Which  neither  hstlessness,  nor  mad  endeavor, 

Nor  man  nor  boy. 
Nor  all  that  is  at  enmity  with  joy. 
Can  utte  "ly  abolish  or  destroy. 

Hence,  in  a  season  of  calm  weather, 
Though  inland  far  we  be. 
Our  souls  have  sight  of  that  immortal  sea 
Which  brought  us  hither. 
Can  in  a  moment  travel  thither. 
And  see  the  children  sport  upon  the  shore, 
And  hear  the  mighty  waters  rolling  evermore. 

xr. 

And  O,  ye  fountains,  meadows,  hills,  and  groves, 
Forbode  not  any  severing  of  our  loves  ; 
Yet  in  my  heart  of  hearts  I  feel  your  might. 
I  only  have  rehnquished  one  delight, 
To  live  beneath  your  more  habitual  sway. 
I  loved  the  brooks  which  down  their  channels  fret 
Even  more  than  when  I  tripped  lightly  as  they  ; 
The  innocent  brightness  of  a  new-born  day 
Is  lovely  yet. 


WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH.  273 

The  clouds  that  gather  round  the  setting  sun 
Do  take  a  sober  coloring  from  an  eye 
That  hath  kept  watch  o'er  man's  mortaUty. 
Another  race  hath  been,  and  other  palms  are  won. 
Thanks  to  the  human  heart  by  which  we  live, 
Thanks  to  its  tenderness,  its  joys,  and  fears, 
\Jo  me  the  meanest  flower  that  blows  can  give 
Thoughts  that  too  often  lie  too  deep  for  tears.) 


THE  LOVE   OF  NATURE. 

[From  Lines  composed  near  Tintem  Abbey.] 

I  CANNOT  paint 
What  then  I  was.     The  sounding  cataract 
Haunted  me  like  a  passion  ;  the  tall  rock. 
The  mountain,  and  the  deep  and  gloomy  wood, 
Their  colors  and  their  forms,  were  then  to  me 
An  appetite  ;  a  feeling  and  a  love 
That  had  no  need  of  a  remoter  charm, 
By  thought  supplied,  or  any  interest 
Unborrowed  from  the  eye.     That  time  is  past, 
And  all  its  aching  joys  are  now  no  more. 
And  all  its  dizzy  raptures.     Not  for  this 
Faint  I,  nor  mourn,  nor  murmur  ;  other  gifts 
Have  followed,  for  such  loss,  I  would  believe^ 
Abundant  recompense.     For  I  have  learned 
To  look  on  nature,  not  as  in  the  hour 
Of  thoughtless  youth,  but  hearing  oftentimes 
The  still,  sad  music  of  humanity. 
Nor  harsh  nor  grating,  though  of  ample  power 
To  chasten  and  subdue.     And  I  have  felt 
A  presence  that  disturbs  me  with  the  joy 
Of  elevated  thoughts  ;  a  sense  sublime 
Of  something  far  more  deeply  interfused, 
Whose  dwelling  is  the  light  of  setting  suns. 
And  the  round  ocean,  and  the  living  air. 
And  the  blue  sky,  and  in  the  mind  of  man ; 
A  motion  and  a  spirit  that  impels 
All  thinking  things,  all  objects  of  all  thought, 
And  rolls  through  all  things.     Therefore  am  I  still 
i8 


274  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

A  lover  of  the  meadows  and  the  woods 
And  mountains,  and  of  all  that  we  behold 
From  this  green  earth ;  of  all  the  mighty  world 
Of  eye  and  ear,  both  what  they  half  create 
And  what  perceive  ;  well  pleased  to  recognize 
In  nature,  and  the  language  of  the  sense, 
The  anchor  of  my  purest  thoughts,  the  nurse, 
The  guide,  the  guardian  of  my  heart,  and  soul 
Of  all  my  moral  being. 


STANZAS   SUGGESTED   BY   A   PICTURE   OF   PEELE   CASTLE   IN   A 
STORM. 

I  WAS  thy  neighbor  once,  thou  rugged  pile  ; 

Four  summer  weeks  I  dwelt  in  sight  of  thee  ; 
I  saw  thee  every  day  ;  and  all  the  while 

Thy  form  was  sleeping  on  a  glassy  sea. 

So  pure  the  sky,  so  quiet  was  the  air, 

So  like,  so  very  Hke,  was  day  to  day, 
Whene'er  I  looked,  thy  image  still  was  there. 

It  trembled  ;  but  it.  never  passed  away. 

Ah,  then,  if  mine  had  been  the  painter's  hand 
To  express  what  then  I  saw,  and  add  the  gleam, 

The  light  that  never  was,  on  sea  or  land. 
The  consecration  and  the  poet's  dream,  — 

I  would  have  planted  thee,  thou  hoary  pile. 

Amid  a  world  how  different  from  this  ! 
Beside  a  sea  that  could  not  cease  to  smile. 

On  tranquil  land,  beneath  a  sky  of  bliss. 

A  picture  had  it  been  of  lasting  ease,  • 

Elysian  quiet,  without  toil  or  strife  ; 
No  motion  but  the  moving  tide,  a  breeze, 

Or  merely  silent  nature's  breathing  life. 

O,  'tis  a  passionate  work  ;  yet  wise  and  well. 
Well  chosen  is  the  spirit  which  is  here  ; 

That  hulk  which  labors  in  the  deadly  swell. 
This  rueful  sky,  this  pageantry  of  fear. 


WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH. 


275 


And  this  huge  castle,  standing  here  sublime, 
I  love  to  see  the  look  with  which  it  braves, 

Cased  in  the  unfeeling  armor  of  old  time, 
The  lightning,  the  fierce  wind,  and  trampling  waves. 


SONNET   COMPOSED   ON   WESTMINSTER  BRIDGE,    1803. 

[London  in  early  Morning.] 

Earth  has  not  anything  to  show  more  fair. 
Dull  would  he  be  of  soul  who  could  pass  by 
A  sight  so  touching  in  its  majesty  ; 
This  city  now  doth  like  a  garment  wear 
The  beauty  of  the  morning.     Silent,  bare. 
Ships,  towers,  domes,  theatres,  and  temples  lie 
Open  unto  the  fields  and  to  the  sky. 
All  bright  and  glittering  in  the  smokeless  air. 
Never  did  sun  more  beautifully  steep 
In  his  first  splendor  valley,  rock,  or  hill ; 
Ne'er  saw  I,  never  felt,  a  calm  so  deep. 
The  river  ghdeth  at  his  own  sweet  will. 
Dear  God  !  the  very  houses  seem  asleep, 
And  all  that  mighty  heart  is  lying  still. 


A  PORTRAIT. 


She  was  a  phantom  of  delight 
When  first  she  gleamed  upon  my  sight 
A  lovely  apparition,  sent 
To  be  a  moment's  ornament ; 
Her  eyes  as  stars  of  twilight  fair ; 
Like  twilight's,  too,  her  dusky  hair  ; 
But  all  things  else  about  her  drawn 
From  May-time  and  the  cheerful  dawn  ■ 
A  dancing  shape,  an  image  gay. 
To  haunt,  to  startle,  and  waylay. 

I  saw  her,  upon  nearer  view, 

A  spirit,  yet  a  woman  too  ; 

Her  household  motions  light  and  free, 

And  steps  of  virgin  liberty  ; 

A  countenance  in  which  did  meet 


Sweet  records,  promises  as  sweet ; 
A  creature  not  too  bright  or  good 
For  human  nature's  daily  food, 
For  transient  sorrows,  simple  wi!es, 
Praise,  blame,  love,  kisses,  tears,  and  smiles. 

And  now  I  see,  with  eye  serene, 
The  very  pulse  of  the  machine  : 
A  being  breathing  thoughtful  breath, 
A  traveller  betwixt  life  and  death  ; 
The  reason  firm,  the  temperate  will. 
Endurance,  foresight,  strength,  and  skill  ; 
A  perfect  woman,  nobly  planned 
To  warn,  to  comfort,  and  command, 
And  yet  a  spirit  still,  and  bright. 
With  something  of  an  angel  light. 


276 


HAND-BOOK   OF  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 


WE  ARE  SEVEN. 


—  A  SIMPLE  child, 
That  lightly  draws  its  breath, 
And  feels  its  life  in  every  limb. 
What  should  it  know  of  death? 

I  met  a  little  cottage  girl ; 

She  was  eight  years  old,  she  said : 
Her  hair  was  thick  with  many  a  curl 

That  clustered  round  her  head. 

She  had  a  rustic,  woodland  air. 

And  she  was  wildly  clad ; 
Her  eyes  were  fair,  and  very  fair; 

Her  beauty  made  me  glad. 

"  Sisters  and  brothers,  little  maid. 

How  many  may  you  be  ?  " 
"  How  many?    Seven  in  all,"  she  said, 

And,  wondering,  looked  at  me. 

"  And  where  are  they  ?     I  pray  you,  tell. 

She  answered,  "  Seven  are  we  ; 
And  two  of  us  at  Conway  dwell, 

And  two  are  gone  to  sea. 

"  Two  of  us  in  the  churchyard  lie,  — 
My  sister  and  my  brother,  — 

And  in  the  churchyard  cottage  I 
Dwell  near  them,  with  my  mother. " 

"  You  say  that  two  at  Conway  dwell, 

And  two  are  gone  to  sea  ; 
Yet  ye  are  seven.     I  pray  you,  tell, 

Sweet  maid,  how  this  may  be." 

Then  did  the  little  maid  reply, 
"  Seven  boys  and  girls  are  we  ; 

Two  of  us  in  the  churchyard  lie, 
Beneath  the  churchyard  tree." 

"  You  run  about,  my  little  maid  ; 

Your  limbs  they  are  alive  ; 
If  two  are  in  the  churchyard  laid, 

Thfca  ye  are  only  five. " 


"  Their  graves  are  green  ;  they  may  be 
seen," 
The  little  maid  replied, 
"Twelve  steps  or  more  from  my  mother's 
door ; 
And  they  are  side  by  side. 

"  My  stockings  there  I  often  knit. 

My  kerchief  there  I  hem  ; 
And  there  upon  the  ground  I  sit  — 

I  sit  and  sing  to  them. 

"And  often,  after  sunset,  sir. 

When  it  is  light  and  fair, 
I  take  my  little  porringer, 

And  eat  my  supper  there. 

"The  first  that  died  was  little  Jane  ; 

In  bed  she  moaning  lay 
Till  God  released  her  of  her  pain. 

And  then  she  went  away. 

"  So  in  the  churchyard  she  was  laid ; 

And,  when  the  grass  was  dry, 
Together  round  her  grave  we  played  — 

My  brother  John  and  I. 

"And  when  the  ground  was  white  with 
snow. 

And  I  could  run  and  slide, 
My  brother  John  was  forced  to  go ; 

^nd  he  lies  by  her  side. " 

"How  many  are  you,  then,"  said  I, 
"  If  they  two  are  in  heaven .''  " 

The  little  maiden  did  reply, 
"  O,  master  !  we  are  seven." 

"  But  they  are  dead  —  those  two  are  dead  ; 

Their  spirits  are  in  heaven." 
'Twas  throwing  words  away  :  for  still 
The  little  maid  would  have  her  will. 

And  said,  "  Nay,  we  are  seven." 


SIR   WALTER   SCOTT.  277 


SIR  WALTER   SCOTT. 

Walter  Scott  was  born  in  Edinburgh  in  1771,  and  received  his  education  in  the  High  School 
and  University  of  his  native  city.  He  studied  law,  and  appears  to  have  made  a  successful 
beginning  in  his  profession.  He  held  the  office  of  sheriff^  and  afterwards  of  clerk  of  the 
Court  of  Sessions,  from  which  he  received  an  ample  income.  His  first  poem,  The  Lay  of 
the  Last  Minstrel,  was  received  with  acclamations.  The  style  was  animated,  and  the  field 
was  new  ;  the  public  was  in  raptures  with  the  picturesque  descriptions  of  the  days  of  chivalry, 
and  amazed  at  the  antiquarian  lore  with  which  the  poem  was  filled.  In  rapid  succession 
came  Marmion,  The  Lady  of  the  Lake,  The  Vision  of  Don  Roderick,  Rokeby,  The  Bridal 
of  Triermain,  The  Lord  of  the  Isles,  The  Field  of  Waterloo,  and  Harold  the  Dauntless. 
The  vein  was  apparently  exhausted  ;  people  were  tired  of  the  fatal  fecility  of  octosyllabic 
rhyme  ;  Byron  had  appeared,  and  the  world  turned  to  greet  the  newly  risen  sun.  But  the 
"Wizard  of  the  North  "  had  not  tried  his  master-spell.  The  novel  of  Waverley  appeared 
anonymous'.y,  followed  by  a  long  train  of  bri.lant  romances,  —  the  most  absorbing  in  interest, 
the  most  dramatic  in  characterization,  the  most  exquisite  in  style,  the  most  correct  in 
historical  coloring,  of  any  that  the  world  had  seen.  The  work  begun  for  fame  was  continued 
lor  othei  motives.  Scott  had  been  secretly  a  partner  in  a  publishing  house  in  Edinburgh, 
and  had  built  a  very  costly  residence,  in  mediaeval  style,  at  Abbotsford.  All  his  vast  earn- 
ings, in  amount  far  exceeding  what  any  author  had  ever  received  before,  were  swallowed  up 
by  the  failure  of  the  house  with  which  he  was  connected,  and  he  found  himself  in  debt  no 
}ess  than  one  hundred  and  seventeen  thousand  pounds.  Heroically  he  set  to  work  to  pay 
off  this  immense  sum,  and  in  four  years  (1830)  he  had  passed  over  to  his  creditors  seventy 
thousand  pounds.  Bi.t  the  task  was  too  great  —  his  brain  had  been  overworked.  He  was 
prevailed  upon  to  take  some  rest,  and  sailed  to  the  Mediterranean  in  a  national  ship  to  pass 
a  winter  at  Naples.  He  returned  the  following  summer,  and  died  at  Abbotsford  in  Sep- 
tember, 1832. 

The  poems  of  Scott  are  full  of  vivid  scenes,  in  easy,  natural  verse,  nowhere  flagging  in 
interest,  never  taxing  the  reader's  powers  of  thought,  and  rarely  tuniing  from  the  busy  outer 
world  to  the  inner  chambers  of  reflection.  It  is  through  the  medium  of  these  bright  and 
stirring  narratives  that  most  students  have  been  inducted  into  the  realms  of  imagination,  and 
have  come  to  love  poetry  for  its  own  sake.  Of  the  romances  it  is  difficult  to  speak  with  any 
critical  calmness.  They  are  a  library  of  themselves,  alone,  unparalleled  in  literature ;  and, 
without  disparaging  any  novelist  that  has  since  appeared,  no  works  have  yet  supplanted,  or 
are  likely  to  supplant  them  in  the  permanent  regard  of  all  cultivated  readers. 

Besides  the  works  already  mentioned,  Scott  wrote  a  Life  of  Napoleon,  a  work  of  great 
Jabor,  but  unfair,  and  deeply  tinged  with  prejudice  against  the  French.  His  own  life  has 
been  written  by  his  son-in-law,  J.  G.  Lockhart.  The  poems  of  Scott  are  to  be  had  com- 
plete in  many  different  styles  ;  many  editions  of  the  novels  have  also  been  published  both  in 
England  and  in  the  United  States. 

THE   VISIT   OF  JEANIE   DEANS   TO   THE   QUEEN. 
[From  the  Heart  of  Mid-Lothian.  J 

From  her  kind  and  officious,  but  somewhat  gossiping  friend,  Mrs. 
Glass,  Jeanie  underwent  a  very  close  catechism  on  their  road  to  the 
Strand,  where  the  Thistle  of  the  good  lady  flourished  in  full  glory, 
and,  with  its  legend  Nemo  me  ifnpune,  distinguished  a  shop  then 
well  known  to  all  Scottish  folk  of  high  and  low  degree. 

"  And  were  you  sure  aye  to  say  your  Grace  to  him  ?  "  said  the 


278  HAND-BOOK   OF  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

good  old  lady  ;  "  for  ane  should  make  a  distinction  between  MacCal- 
lummore  and  the  bits  o'  southern  bodies  that  they  ca'  lords  here  — 
there  are  as  mony  o'  them,  Jeanie,  as  would  gar  ane  think  they  maun 
cost  but  little  fash  in  the  making  —  some  of  them  I  wadna  trust  wi' 
six  pennies-worth  of  black-rappee  —  some  of  them  I  wadna  gie  mysell 
the  trouble  to  put  up  a  hapny-worth  in  brown  paper  for  —  but  I  hope 
you  showed  your  breeding  to  the  Duke  of  Argyle,  for  what  sort  of 
folk  would  he  think  your  friends  in  London,  if  you  had  been  lording 
him,  and  him  a  Duke  ?  " 

"  He  didna  seem  muckle  to  mind,"  said  Jeanie  ;  "  he  kend  that  I 
was  landward  bred." 

"Weel,  weel,"  answered  the  good  lady.  "His  Grace  kens  me 
weel ;  so  I  am  the  less  anxious  about  it.  I  never  fill  his  snuff-box 
but  he  says,  "^  How  d'ye  do,  good  Mrs.  Glass  ?  How  are  all  our 
friends  in  the  north  ? '  or,  it  may  be,  '  Have  ye  heard  from  the  north 
lately  ? '  And  you  may  be  sure  I  make  my  best  courtesy,  and 
answer,  '  My  Lord  Duke,  I  hope  your  Grace's  noble  Duchess,  and 
your  Grace's  young  ladies,  are  well ;  and  I  hope  the  snuff  continues 
to  give  your  Grace  satisfaction.'  And  then  ye  will  see  the  people  in 
the  shop  begin  to  look  about  them  ;  and  if  there's  a  Scotsman,  as 
there  may  be  three  or  half  a  dozen,  aff  go  the  hats,  and  mony  a  look 
after  him,  and  '  There  goes  the  Prince  of  Scotland,  God  bless  him  ! ' 
But  ye  have  not  told  me  yet  the  very  words  he  said  t'ye." 

Jeanie  had  no  intention  to  be  quite  so  communicative.  She  had, 
as  the  reader  may  have  observed,  some  of  the  caution  and  shrewd- 
ness, as  well  as  of  the  simplicity,  of  her  country.  She  answered 
generally,  that  the  Duke  had  received  her  very  compassionately,  and 
had  promised  to  interest  himself  in  her  sister's  affair,  and  to  let  her 
hear  from  him  in  the  course  of  the  next  day  or  the  day  after. 

"  You  have  been  punctual,  I  see,  Jeanie,"  said  the  Duke  of  Argyle, 
as  Archibald  opened  the  carriage  door.  "  You  must  be  my  com- 
panion for  the  rest  of  the  way.  Archibald  will  remain  here  with  the 
hackney-coach  till  your  return." 

Ere  Jeanie  could  make  answer,  she  found  herself,  to  her  no  small 
astonishment,  seated  by  the  side  of  a  duke,  in  a  carriage  which 
rolled  forward  at  a  rapid  yet  smooth  rate,  very  different  in  both 
particulars  from  the  lumbering,  jolting  vehicle  which  she  had  just 
left ;  and  which,  lumbering  and  jolting  as  it  was,  conveyed  to  one 
who  had  seldom  been  in  a  coach  before,  a  certain  feeling  of  dignity 
and  importance. 


SIR   WALTER   SCOTT.  2/9 

"  Young  woman,"  said  the  Duke,  "  after  thinking  as  attentively  on 
your  sister's  case  as  is  in  my  power,  I  continue  to  be  impressed  with 
the  behef  that  great  injustice  may  be  done  by  the  execution  of  her 
sentence.  So  are  one  or  two  Hberal  and  intelligent  lawyers  of  both 
countries  whom  I  have  spoken  with.  Nay,  pray  hear  me  out  before 
you  thank  me.  I  have  already  told  you  my  personal  conviction  is  of 
little  consequence,  unless  I  could  impress  the  same  upon  others.  Now 
I  have  done  for  you  what  I  would  certainly  not  have  done  to  serve 
any  purpose  of  my  own  —  I  have  asked  an  audience  of  a  lady  whose 
interest  with  the  King  is  deservedly  very  high.  It  has  been  allowed 
me,  and  I  am  desirous  that  you  should  see  her  and  speak  for  your- 
self. You  have  no  occasion  to  be  abashed  ;  tell  your  story  simply,  as 
you  did  to  me." 

"  I  am  much  obliged  to  your  Grace,"  said  Jeanie,  remembering 
Mrs.  Glass's  charge,  "  and  I  am  sure,  since  I  have  had  the  courage 
to  speak  to  your  Grace  in  poor  Effie's  cause,  I  have  less  reason  to 
be  shamefaced  in  speaking  to  a  leddy.  But,  sir,  I  would  like  to  ken 
what  to  ca'  her,  whether  your  grace,  or  your  honor,  or  your  leddy- 
ship,  as  we  say  to  lairds  and  leddies  in  Scotland,  and  I  will  take  care 
to  mind  it ;  for  I  ken  leddies  are  full  mair  particular  than  gentlemen 
about  their  titles  of  honor." 

"  You  have  no  occasion  to  call  her  anything  but  madam.  Just 
say  what  you  think  is  hkely  to  make  the  best  impression  —  look  at 
me  from  time  to  time  —  and  if  I  put  my  hand  to  my  cravat,  so,"  — 
showing  her  the  motion,  —  "  you  will  stop  ;  but  I  shall  only  do  this 
when  you  say  anything  that  is  not  likely  to  please." 

"  But;  sir,  your  Grace,"  said  Jeanie,  "  if  it  wasna  ower  much 
trouble,  wad  it  no  be  better  to  tell  me  what  I  should  say,  and  I 
could  get  it  by  heart  ? " 

"  No,  Jeanie  ;  that  would  not  have  the  same  effect  —  that  would  be 
like  reading  a  sermon,  you  know,  which  we  good  Presbyterians 
think  has  less  unction  than  when  spoken  without  book,"  replied  the 
Duke.  "  Just  speak  as  plainly  and  boldly  to  this  lady,  as  you  did  to 
me  the  day  before  yesterday  ;  and  if  you  can  gain  her  consent,  I'll 
wad  ye  a  plack,  as  we  say  in  the  north,  that  you  get  tlie  pardon  from 
the  King." 

The  carriage  rolled  rapidly  onwards  through  fertile  meadows 
ornamented  with  splendid  old  oaks,  and  catching  occasionally  a 
glance  of  the  majestic  mirror  of  a  broad  and  placid  river.  After 
passing  through  a  pleasant  village,  the  equipage  stopped  on  a  com- 


2ii">  HAND-BOOK  OF  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

manding  eminence,  where  the  beauty  of  English  landscape  was  dis- 
played in  its  utmost  luxuriance.  Here  the  Duke  alighted,  and 
desired  Jeanie  to  follow  him.  They  paused  for  a  moment  on  the 
brow  of  a  hill,  to  gaze  on  the  unrivalled  landscape  which  it  presented. 
A  huge  sea  of  verdure,  with  crossing  and  intersecting  promontories 
of  massive  and  tufted  groves,  was  tenanted  by  numberless  flocks 
and  herds,  which  seemed  to  wander  unrestrained  and  unbounded 
through  the  rich  pastures.  The  Thames,  here  turreted  with  villas, 
and  there  garlanded  with  forests,  moved  on  slowly  and  placidly,  hke 
the  mighty  monarch  of  the  scene,  to  whom  all  its  other  beauties  were 
but  accessory,  and  bore  on  his  bosom  a  hundred  barks  and  skiffs, 
whose  white  sails  and  g^yiy  fluttering  pennons  gave  life  to  the  whole. 

Then  adopting  an  unfrequented  foot-path,  he  conducted  Jeanie 
through  several  complicated  mazes,  to  a  postern-door  in  a  high 
brick  wall. 

It  was  shut ;  but  as  the  Duke  tapped  slightly  at  it,  a  person  in 
waiting  within,  after  reconnoitring  through  a  small  iron  grate,  con- 
trived for  the  purpose,  unlocked  the  door  and  admitted  them.  They 
entered,  and  it  was  immediately  closed  and  fastened  behind  them. 
This  was  all  done  quickly,  the  door  so  instantly  closing,  and  the 
person  who  opened  it  so  suddenly  disappearing,  that  Jeanie  could 
not  even  catch  a  glimpse  of  his  exterior. 

They  found  themselves  at  the  extremity  of  a  deep  and  narrow 
alley,  carpeted  with  the  most  verdant  and  close-shaven  turf,  which 
felt  hke  velvet  under  their  feet,  and  screened  from  the  sun  by  the 
branches  of  the  lofty  elms  which  united  over  the  path,  and  caused  it 
to  resemble,  in  the  solemn  obscurity  of  the  light  which  they  admitted, 
as  well  as  from  the  range  of  columnar  stems,  and  intricate  union  of 
their  arched  branches,  one  of  the  narrow  side  aisles  in  an  ancient 
Gothic  cathedral. 

She  remarked  that  the  Duke's  dress,  though  still  such  as  indicated 
rank  and  fashion  (for  it  was  not  the  custom  of  men  of  quaHty  at  that 
•time  to  dress  themselves  Hke  their  own  coachmen  or  grooms),^as 
nevertheless  plainer  than  that  in  which  she  had  seen  him  upon  a 
former  occasion,  and  was  divested,  in  particular,  of  all  those  badges 
of  external  decoration  which  intimated  superior  consequence.  In 
short,  he  was  attired  as  plainly  as  any  gentleman  of  fashion  could 
appear  in  the  streets  of  London  in  a  morning  ;  and  this  circum- 
stance helped  to  shake  an  opinion  which  Jeanie  began  to  entertain, 


SIR   WALTER   SCOTT.  28 1 

that,  perhaps,  he  intended  she  should  plead  her  cause  in  the 
presence  of  royalty  itself.  "  But  surely,"  said  she  to  herself,  "  he 
wad  hae  putten  on  his  braw  star  and  garter,  an  he  had  thought  o' 
coming  before  the  face  of  Majesty  —  and  after  a',  this  is  mair  like  a 
gentleman's  policy  than  a  royal  palace." 

It  was  a  very  consistent  part  of  Queen  Caroline's  character  to 
keep  up  many  private  correspondences  with  those  to  whorrt  in 
public  she  seemed  unfavorable,  or  who,  for  various  reasons,  stood  ill 
with  the  court.  By  this  means  she  kept  in  her  hands  the  thread  of 
many  a  poHtical  intrigue,  and,  without  pledging  herself  to  anything, 
could  often  prevent  discontent  from  becoming  hatred,  and  opposi- 
tion from  exaggerating  itself  into  rebellion.  If  by  any  accident  her 
correspondence  with  such  persons  chanced  to  be  observed  or  dis- 
covered, which  she  took  all  possible  pains  to  prevent,  it  was  rep- 
resented as  a  mere  intercourse  of  society,  having  no  reference  to 
politics  ;  an  answer  with  which  even  the  prime  minister.  Sir  Robert 
Walpole,  was  compelled  to  remain  satisfied,  when  he  discovered  that 
the  Queen  had  given  a  private  audience  to  Pulteney,  afterwards 
Earl  of  Bath,  his  most  formidable  and  most  inveterate  enemy. 

From  the  narrow  alley  which  they  had  traversed,  the  Duke  turned 
into  one  of  the  same  character,  but  broader  and  still  longer.  Here, 
for  the  first  time  since  they  had  entered  these  gardens,  Jeanie  saw 
persons  approaching  them. 

They  were  two  ladies  ;  one  of  whom  walked  a  little  behind  the 
other,  yet  not  so  much  as  to  prevent  her  from  hearing  and  replying 
to  whatever  observation  was  addressed  to  her  by  the  lady  who 
walked  foremost,  and  that  without  her  having  the  trouble  to  turn 
her  person.  As  they  advanced  very  slowly,  Jeanie  had  time  to  study 
their  features  and  appearance.  The  Duke  also  slackened  his  pace, 
as  if  to  give  her  time  to  collect  herself,  and  repeatedly  desired  her 
not  to  be  afraid.  The  lady  who  seemed  the  principal  person  had 
remarkably  good  features,  though  somewhat  injured  by  the  small- 
ppx,  that  venomous  scourge  which  each  village  Esculapius  (thanks 
to  Jenner)  can  now  tame  as  easily  as  their  tutelary  deity  subdued 
the  Python.  The  lady's  eyes  were  brilliant,  her  teeth  good,  and  her 
countenance  formed  to  express  at  will  either  majesty  or  courtesy. 
Her  form,  though  rather  embonpoint^  was  nevertheless  graceful ; 
and  the  elasticity  and  firmness  of  her  step  gave  no  room  to  suspect, 
what  was  actually  the  case,  that  she  suifered  occasionally  from  a 


282  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

disorder  the  most  unfavorable  to  pedestrian  exercise.  Her  dress 
was  rather  rich  than  gay,  and  her  manner  commanding  and  noble. 

Her  companion  was  of  lower  stature,  with  light  brown  hair  and 
expressive  blue  eyes.  Her  features,  without  being  absolutely  reg- 
ular, were  perhaps  more  pleasing  than  if  they  had  been  critically 
handsome.  A  melancholy,  or  at  least  a  pensive,  expression,  for 
which  her  lot  gave  too  much  cause,  predominated  when  she  was 
silent,  but  gave  way  to  a  pleasing  and  good-humored  smile  when  she 
spoke  to  any  one. 

When  they  were  within  twelve  or  fifteen  yards  of  these  ladies,  the 
Duke  made  a  sign  that  Jeanie  should  stand  still,  and,  stepping  for- 
ward himself,  with  the  grace  which  was  natural  to  him,  made  a  pro- 
found obeisance,  which  was  formally,  yet  in  a  dignified  manner, 
returned  by  the  personage  whom  he  approached. 

"I  hope,"  she  said,  with  an  affable  and  condescending  smile, 
"  that  I  see  so  great  a  stranger  at  court,  as  the  Duke  of  Argyle  has 
been  of  late,  in  as  good  health  as  his  friends  there  and  elsewhere 
could  wish  him  to  enjoy." 

The  Duke  replied  that  he  had  been  perfectly  well ;  and  added, 
that  the  necessity  of  attending  to  the  public  business  before  the 
House,  as  well  as  the  time  occupied  by  a  late  journey  to  Scotland, 
had  rendered  him  less  assiduous  in  paying  his  duty  at  the  levee  and 
drawing-room  than  he  could  have  desired. 

"  When  your  Grace  can  find  time  for  a  duty  so  frivolous,"  replied 
the  Queen,  "you  are  aware  of  your  title  to  be  well  received.  I  hope 
my  readiness  to  comply  with  the  wish  which  you  expressed  yester- 
day to  Lady  Suffolk  is  a  sufficient  proof  that  one  of  the  royal  family, 
at  least,  has  not  forgotten  ancient  and  important  services  in  resent- 
ing something  which  resembles  recent  neglect."  This  was  said 
apparently  with  great  good  humor,  and  in  a  tone  which  expressed  a 
desire  of  concihation. 

The  Duke  replied  that  he  would  account  himself  the  most  unfor- 
tunate of  men  if  he  could  be  supposed  capable  of  neglecting  his 
duty,  in  modes  and  circumstances  when  it  was  expected,  and  would 
have  been  agreeable.  He  was  deeply  gratified  by  the  honor  which 
her  Majesty  was  now  doing  to  him  personally ;  and  he  trusted  she 
would  soon  perceive  that  it  was  in  a  manner  essential  to  his  Majes- 
ty's interest  that  he  had  the  boldness  to  give  her  this  trouble. 

"You  cannot' oblige  me  more,  my  Lord  Duke,"  replied  the  Queen, 
"  than  by  giving  me  the  advantage  of  your  lights  and  experience  on 
any  point  of  the  King's  service.     Your  Grace  is  aware  that  I  can 


SIR   WALTER   SCOTT.  283 

only  be  the  medium  through  which  the  matter  is  subjected  to  his 
Majesty's  superior  wisdom  ;  but  if  it  is  a  suit  which  respects  your 
Grace  personally,  it  shall  lose  no  support  by  being  preferred 
through  me." 

"  It  is  no  suit  v^^  mine,  madam,"  replied  the  Duke  ;  "nor  have  I 
any  to  prefer  for  iryself  personally,  although  I  feel  in  full  force  my 
obligation  to  your  Majesty.  It  is  a  business  which  concerns  his 
Majesty,  as  a  lover  of  justice  and  of  mercy,  and  Vvhich,  I  am  con- 
vinced, may  be  highly  useful  in  conciliating  the  unfortunate  irritation 
which  at  present  subsists  among  his  Majesty's  good  subjects  in  Scot- 
land." 

There  were  two  parts  of  this  speech  disagreeable  to  Caroline. 
In  the  first  place,  it  removed  the  flattering  notion  she  had  adopted, 
that  Argyle  designed  to  use  her  personal  intercession  in  making  his 
peace  with  the  administration,  and  recovering  the  employments  of 
which  he  had  been,  deprived  ;  and  next,  she  was  displeased  that  he 
should  talk  of  the.  discontents  in  Scotland  as  irritations  to  be  concil- 
iated, rather  than,  suppressed. 

Under  the  influence  of  these  feelings,  she  answered  hastily,  "  Thaf 
his  Majesty  has  good  subjects  in  England,  my  Lord  Duke,  he  is 
bound  to  thank  God  and  the  laws  —  that  he  has  subjects  in  Scot- 
land, I  think  he  may  thank  God  and  his  sword." 

The  Duke,  though  a  courtier,  colored  slightly,  and  the  Queen,  in- 
stantly sensible  of  her  error,  added,  without  displaying  the  least 
change  of  countenance,  and  as  if,  the  words  had  been  an  original 
branch  of  the  sentence,  "  And  the  swords  of  those  real  Scotchmen 
who  are  friends  to  the  House  of  Brunswick,  particularly  that  of  his 
Grace  of  Argyle." 

"  My  sword,  madam,"  replied  the  Duke,  "like  that  of  my  fathers, 
has  been  always  at  the  command  of  my  lawful  King,  and  of  my  native 
country — I  trust  it  is  impossible  to  separate  their  real  rights  and 
interests.  But  the  present  is  a  matter  of  more  private  concern,  and 
respects  the  person  of  an  obscure  individual." 

"  What  is  the  affair,  my  Lord  ?  "  said  the  Queen.  "  Let  us  find 
out  what  we  are  talking  about,  lest  we  should  misconstrue  and  mis- 
understand each  other." 

"  The  matter,  madam,"  answered  the  Duke  of  Argyle,  "  regards 
the  fate  of  an  unfortunate  young  woman  in  Scotland,  now  lying 
under  sentence  of  death  for  a  crime  of  which  I  think  it  highly  prob- 
able that  she  is  innocent ;  and  my  humble  petition  to  your  Majesty 
\s,  to  obtain  your  powerful  intercession  with  the  King  for  pardon." 


284  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

"  I  must  first  impose  on  your  Grace  the  duty  of  confession,"  said 
the  Queen,  "  before  I  grant  you  absolution.  What  is  your  particular 
interest  in  this  young  woman.?  She  does  not  seem"  —  and  she 
scanned  Jeanie,  as  she  said  this,  with  the  eye  of  a  connoisseur  — 
"  much  qualified  to  alarm  my  friend  the  Duchess's  jealousy." 

"I  think  your  Majesty,"  replied  the  Duke,  smiling  in  his  turn, 
"  will  allow  my  taste  may  be  a  pledge  for  me  on  that  score." 

"  Then,  though  she  has  not  much  the  air  d''une  grande  daine^  I 
suppose  she  is  some  thirtieth  cousin  in  the  terrible  chapter  of  Scot- 
tish genealogy .? " 

"  No,  madam,"  sai4  the  Duke ;  "  but  I  wish  some  of  my  nearer 
relations  had  half  her  worth,  honesty,  and  affection." 

"  Her  name  must  be  Campbell,  at  least  ?  "  said  Queen  Caroline. 

"  No,  madam ;  her  name  is  not  quite  so  distinguished,  if  I  may 
be  permitted  to  say  so,"  answered  the  Duke. 

"Ah!  but  she  comes  from  Inverary  or  Argyleshire  ?  "  said  the 
Sovereign. 

"She  has  never  been  farther  north  in  her  life  than  Edinburgh, 
madam." 

"  Then  my  conjectures  are  all  ended,"  said  the  Queen,  "and  your 
Grace  must  yourself  take  the  trouble  to  explain  the  affair  of  your 
protegee." 

"  If  your  Majesty,"  he  said,  "would  condescend  to  hear  my  poor 
countrywoman  herself,  perhaps  she  may  find  an  advocate  in  your 
own  heart  more  able  than  I  am  to  combat  the  doubts  suggested  by 
your  understanding." 

The  Queen  seemed  to  acquiesce,  and  the  Duke  made  a  signal  for 
Jeanie  to  advance  from  the  spot  where  she  had  hitherto  remained 
watching  countenances  which  were  too  long  accustomed  to  suppress 
all  apparent  signs  of  emotion,  to  convey  to  her  any  interesting  intel- 
ligence. Her  Majesty  could  not  help  smiling  at  the  awe-struck 
manner  in  which  the  quiet,  demure  figure  of  the  little  Scotchwoman 
advanced  towards  her,  and  yet  more  at  the  first  sound  of  her  broad 
northern  accent.  But  Jeanie  had  a  voice  low  and  sweetly  toned,  — 
an  admirable  thing  in  woman,  —  and  eke  besought  "  her  Leddyship 
to  have  pity  on  a  poor  misguided  young  creature,"  in  tones  so  affect- 
ing, that,  like  the  notes  of  some  of  her  native  songs,  provincial  vul- 
garity was  lost  in  pathos. 

"  Stand  up,  young  woman,"  said  the  Queen,  but  in  a  kind  tone, 
"  and  tell  me  what  sort  of  a  barbarous  people  your  countryfolk  are, 


SIR   WALTER   SCOTT.  285 

where  child-murder  is  become  so  common  as  to  require  the  restraint 
of  laws  like  yours." 

"  If  your  Leddyship  pleases,"  answered  Jeanie,  "  there  are  mony 
places  beside  Scotland  where  mothers  are  unkind  to  their  ain  flesh 
and  blood." 

It  must  be  observed  that  the  disputes  between  George  the  Sec- 
ond and  Frederick  Prince  of  Wales  were  then  at  the  highest,  and 
that  the  good-natured  part  of  the  public  laid  the  blame  on  the  Queen. 
She  colored  highly,  and  darted  a  glance  of  a  most  penetrating  char- 
acter first  at  Jeanie,  and  then  at  the  Duke.  Both  sustained  it 
unmoved ;  Jeanie  from  total  unconsciousness  of  the  offence  she  had 
given,  and  the  Duke  from  his  habitual  composure.  But  in  his  heart 
he  thought,  "  My  unlucky  protegee  has  with  this  luckless  answer 
shot  dead,  by  a  kind  of  chance-medley,  her  only  hope  of  success." 

Lady  Suffolk,  good-humoredly  and  skilfully,  interposed  in  this 
awkward  crisis.  "You  should  tell  this  lady,"  she  said  to  Jeanie, 
"the  particular  causes  which  render  this  crime  common  in  your 
country." 

"Some  thinks  it's  the  Kirk-Session  —  that  is  —  it's  the  —  it's  the 
cutty-stool,  if  your  Leddyship  pleases,"  said  Jeanie,  looking  down 
and  courtesying. 

"  The  what  ? "  said  Lady  Suffolk,  to  whom  the  phrase  was  new, 
and  who  besides  was  rather  deaf. 

"  That's  the  stool  of  repentance,  madam,  if  it  please  your  Leddy- 
ship," answered  Jeanie,  "for  light  life  and  conversation,  and  for 
breaking  the  seventh  command."  Here  she  raised  her  eyes  to  the 
Duke,  saw  his  hand  at  his  chin,  and,  totally  unconscious  of  what  she 
had  said  out  of  joint,  gave  double  effect  to  the  innuendo  by  stopping 
short  and  looking  embarrassed. 

As  for  Lady  Suffolk,  she  retired  like  a  covering  party,  which,  hav- 
ing interposed  betwixt  their  retreating  friends  and  the  enemy,  have 
suddenly  drawn  on  themselves  a  fire  unexpectedly  severe. 

"  The  deuce  take  the  lass,"  thought  the  Duke  of  Argyle  to  him- 
self ;  "  there  goes  another  shot  —  and  she  has  hit  with  both  barrels, 
right  and  left !  " 

Indeed,  the  Duke  had  himself  his  share  of  the  confusion,  for,  hav- 
ing acted  as  master  of  ceremonies  £0  this  innocent  offender,  he  felt 
much  in  the  circumstances  of  a  country  squire,  who,  having  intro- 
duced his  spaniel  into  a  well-appointed  drawing-room,  is  doomed  to 
witness  the  disorder  and  damage  which  arises  to  china  and  to  dress- 
gowns  in  consequence  of  its  untimely  frolics.     Jeanie's  last  chance 


286  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

hit,  however,  obliterated  the  ill  impression  which  had  arisen  from 
the  first ;  for  her  Majesty  had  not  so  lost  the  feelings  of  a  wife  in 
those  of  a  Queen,  but  that  she  could  enjoy  a  jest  at  the  expense  of 
"  her  good  Suffolk."  She  turned  towards  the  Duke  of  Argyle  with 
a  smile,  which  marked  that  she  enjoyed  the  triumph,  and  observed, 
"The  Scotch  are  a  rigidly  moral  people."  Then,  again  applying 
herself  to  Jeanie,  she  asked  how  she  travelled  up  from  Scotland. 

"  Upon  my  foot  mostly,  madam,"  was  the  reply. 

"  What !  all  that  immense  way  upon  foot  ?  How  far  can  you  walk 
in  a  day  ?  " 

"  Five  and  twenty  miles  and  a  bittock." 

"  And  a  what  ? "  said  the  Queen,  looking  towards  the  Duke  of 
Argyle. 

"  And  about  five  miles  more,"  replied  the  Duke. 

"I  thought  I  was  a  good  walker,"  said  the  Queen,  "but  this 
shames  me  sadly." 

"  May  your  Leddyship  never  hae  sae  weary  a  heart  that  ye  canna 
be  sensible  of  the  weariness  of  the  limbs,"  said  Jeanie. 

"  That  came  better  oif,"  thought  the  Duke ;  "  it's  the  first  thing 
she  has  said  to  the  purpose." 

"  And  I  didna  just  a'thegither  walk  the  hail  way  neither,  for  I  had 
whiles  the  cast  of  a  cart ;  and  I  had  the  cast  of  a  horse  from  Ferry- 
bridge—  and  divers  other  easements,"  said  Jeanie,  cutting  short  her 
story,  for  she  observed  the  Duke  made  the  sign  he  had  fixed  upon. 

"With  all  these  accommodations,  answered  the  Queen,  "you 
must  have  had  a  very  fatiguing  journey,  and,  I  fear,  to  little  pur- 
pose ;  since  if  the  King  were  to  pardon  your  sister,  in  all  probability 
it  would  do  her  little  good,  for  I  suppose  your  people  of  Edinburgh 
would  hang  her  out  of  spite." 

"  She  will  sink  herself  now  outright,"  thought  the  Duke. 

But  he  was  wrong.  The  shoals  on  which  Jeanie  had  touched  in 
this  delicate  conversation  lay  under  ground,  and  were  unknown  to 
her ;  this  rock  was  above  water,  and  she  avoided  it. 

"  She  was  confident,"  she  said,  "  that  baith  town  and  country  wad 
rejoice  to  see  his  Majesty  taking  compassion  on  a  poor  unfriended 
creature." 

"  His  Majesty  has  not  found  if  so  in  the  late  instance,"  said  the 
Queen;  "but  I  suppose  my  Lord  Duke  would  advise  him  to  be 
guided  by  the  votes  of  the  rabble  themselves,  M-ho  ehould  be  hanged, 
and  who  spared  ?  " 

"  No,  madam,"  said  the  Duke  ;  "  but  I  would  adv^*^  hi?  M^ je.«ty 


SIR   WALTER    SCOTT.  23? 

to  be  guided  by  his  own  feelings,  and  those  of  his  royal  consort ; 
and  then,  I  am  sure,  punishment  will  only  attach  itself  to  guilt,  and 
even  then  with  cautious  reluctance." 

"  Well,  my  Lord,"  said  her  Majesty,  "  all  these  fine  speeches  do 
not  convince  me  of  the  propriety  of  so  soon  showing  any  mark  of 
favor  to  your,  —  I  suppose  I  must  not  say  rebellious,  —  but,  at  least, 
your  very  disaffected  and  intractable  metropolis.  Why,  the  whole 
nation  is  in  a  league  to  screen  the  savage  and  abominable  murderers 
of  that  unhappy  man  ;  otherwise,  how  is  it  possible  but  that,  of  so 
many  perpetrators,  and  engaged  in  so  public  an  action  for  such  a 
length  of  time,  one  at  least  must  have  been  recognized  ?  Even  this 
wench,  for  aught  I  can  tell,  may  be  a  depositary  of  the  secret.  Hark 
you,  young  woman  ;  had  you  any  friends  engaged  in  the  Porteous 
mob?" 

"  No,  madam,"  answered  Jeanie,  happy  that  the  question  was  so 
framed  that  she  could,  with  a  good  conscience,  answer  it  in  the 
negative. 

"  But  I  suppose,"  continued  the  Queen,  "  if  you  were  possessed 
of  such  a  secret,  you  would  hold  it  a  matter  of  conscience  to  keep  it 
to  yourself  ?  " 

"  I  would  pray  to  be  directed  and  guided  what  was  the  line  of 
duty,  madam,"  answered  Jeanie. 

"  Yes,  and  take  that  which  suited  your  own  inclinations,"  replied 
her  Majesty. 

"  If  it  like  you,  madam,"  said  Jeanie,  "  I  would  hae  gane  to  the 
end  of  the  earth  to  save  the  life  of  John  Porteous,  or  any  other  un- 
happy man  in  his  condition  ;  but  I  might  lawfully  doubt  how  far  I 
am  called  upon  to  be  the  avenger  of  his  blood,  though  it  may  be- 
come the  civil  magistrate  to  do  so.  He  is  dead  and  gane  to  his 
place,  and  they  that  have  slain  him  must  answer  for  their  ain  act. 
But  my  sister,  my  puir  sister,  Effie,  still  lives,  though  her  days  and 
hours  are  numbered  !  She  still  lives,  and  a  word  of  the  King's 
mouth  might  restore  her  to  a  broken-hearted  auld  man,  that  never 
in  his  daily  and  nightly  exercise  forgot  to  pray  that  his  Majesty 
might  be  blessed  with  a  long  and  a  prosperous  reign,  and  that  his 
throne,  and  the  throne  of  his  posterity,  might  be  established  in 
righteousness.  O,  madam,  if  ever  ye  kend  what  it  was  to  sorrow 
for  and  with  a  sinning  and  a  suffering  creature,  whose  mind  is  sae 
tossed  that  she  can  be  neither  ca'd  fit  to  live  or  die,  have  some  com- 
passion on  our  misery  !  Save  an  honest  house  from  dishonor,  and 
an  unhappy  girl,  not  eighteen  years  of  age,  from  an  early  and  dread- 


288  HAND-BOOK   OF  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

ful  death  !  Alas  !  it  is  not  when  we  sleep  soft  and  wake  merrily 
ourselves  that  we  think  on  other  people's  sufferings.  Our  hearts  are 
waxed  light  within  us  then,  and  we  are  for  righting  our  ain  wrangs 
and  fighting  our  ain  battles.  But  when  the  hour  of  trouble  comes 
to  the  mind,  or  to  the  body,  —  and  seldom  may  it  visit  your  Leddy- 
ship,  —  and  when  the  hour  of  death  comes,  that  comes  to  high  and 
low,  —  lang  and  late  may  it  be  yours  !  —  O,  my  Leddy,  then  it  isna 
what  we  hae  dune  for  oursells,  but  what  we  hae  dune  for  others,  that 
we  think  on  maist  pleasantly.  ^  And  the  thoughts  that  ye  hae  inter- 
vened to  spare  the  puir  thing's  life  will  be  sweeter  in  that  hour,  come 
when  it  may,  than  if  a  word  of  your  mouth  could  hang  the  haill  Por- 
teous  mob  at  the  tail  of  ae  tow." 

Tear  followed  tear  down  Jeanie's  cheeks,  as,  her  features  glowing 
and  quivering  with  emotion,  she  pleaded  her  sister's  cause  with  a 
pathos  which  was  at  once  simple  and  solemn. 

"  This  is  eloquence,"  said  her  Majesty  to  the  Duke  of  Argyle. 
"  Young  woman,"  she  continued,  addressing  herself  to  Jeanie,  "  I 
cannot  grant  a  pardon  to  your  sister,  but  you  shall  not  want  my 
warm  intercession  with  his  Majesty,  Take  this  housewife-case," 
she  continued,  putting  a  small  embroidered  needle-case  into  Jeanie's 
hands  ;  "  do  not  open  it  now,  but  at  your  leisure  ;  you  will  find 
something  in  it  which  will  remind  you  that  you  have  had  an  inter- 
view with  Queen  Caroline." 

Jeanie,  having  her  suspicions  thus  confirmed,  dropped  on  her 
knees,  and  would  have  expanded  herself  in  gratitude  ;  but  the  Duke, 
who  was  upon  thorns  lest  she  should  say  more  or  less  than  just 
enough,  touched  his  chin  once  more. 

"  Our  business  is,  I  think,  ended  for  the  present,  my  Lord  Duke," 
said  the  Queen,  "  and,  I  trust,  to  your  satisfaction.  Hereafter  I 
hope  to  see  your  Grace  more  frequently,  both  at  Richmond  and  St. 
James's.  Come,  Lady  Suffolk,  we  must  wish  his  Grace  good-morn- 
ing." 

They  exchanged  their  parting  reverences,  and  the  Duke,  so  soon 
as  the  ladies  had  turned  their  backs,  assisted  Jeanie  to  rise  from  the 
ground,  and  conducted  her  back  through  the  avenue,  which  she  trod 
with  the  feeling  of  one  who  walks  in  her  sleep. 


SIR   WALTER   SCOTT.  289 

THE   STORMING   OF   FRONT-DE-BCEUF's   CASTLE. 

[From  Ivanhoe.] 

Ascend  the  watch-tower  yonder,  valiant  soldier ; 
Look  on  the  field,  ar  d  say  how  goes  the  battle. 

Schiller's  Maid  of  Orleans. 

They  had  not  much  leisure  to  regret  the  failure  of  this  source  of 
intelligence,  or  to  contrive  by  what  means  it  might  be  supplied  ;  for 
the  noise  within  the  castle,  occasioned  by  the  defensive  preparations, 
which  had  been  considerable  for  some  time,  now  increased  into  ten- 
fold bustle  and  clamor.  The  heavy  yet  hasty  step  of  the  men-at- 
arms  traversed  the  battlements,  or  resounded  on  the  narrow  and 
winding  passages  and  stairs  which  led  to  the  various  bartisans  and 
points  of  defence.  The  voices  of  the  knights  were  heard  animating 
their  followers  or  directing  means  of  defence,  while  their  commands 
were  often  drowned  in  the  clashing  of  armor  or  the  clamorous  shouts 
of  those  whom  they  addressed.  Tremendous  as  these  sounds  were, 
and  yet  more  terrible  from  the  awful  event  which  they  presaged, 
there  was  a  sublimity  mixed  with  them  which  Rebecca's  high-toned 
mind  could  feel  even  in  that  moment  of  terror.  Her  eye  kindled, 
although  the  blood  fled  from  her  cheeks  ;  and  there  was  a  strong 
mixture  of  fear  and  of  a  thrilling  sense  of  the  sublime  as  she  re- 
peated, half  whispering  to  herself,  half  speaking  to  her  companion, 
the  sacred  text,  "  The  quiver  rattleth,  the  glittering  spear  and  the 
shield,  the  noise  of  the  captains  and  the  shouting." 

But  Ivanhoe  was  like  the  war-horse  of  that  sublime  passage,  glow- 
ing with  impatience  at  his  inactivity,  and  with  his  ardent  desire  to 
mingle  in  the  affray  of  which  these  sounds  were  the  introduction. 
"  If  I  could  but  drag  myself,"  he  said,  '•  to  yonder  window,  that  I 
might  see  how  this  brave  game  is  like  to  go  !  if  I  had  but  bow  to 
shoot  a  shaft,  or  battle-axe  to  strike  were  it  but  a  single  blow  for 
our  deliverance  !  It  is  in  vain  —  it  is  in  vain.  I  am  ahke  nerveless 
and  weaponless." 

"Fret  not  thyself,  noble  knight,"  answered  Rebecca;  "the  sounds 
have  ceased  of  a  sudden.     It  may  be  they  join  not  battle." 

"Thou  knowest  nought  of  it,"  said  Wilfred,  impatiently.  "  This 
dead  pause  only  shows  that  the  men  are  at  their  posts  on  the  walls, 
and  expecting  an  instant  attack.  What  we  have  heard  was  but  the 
distant  muttering  of  the  storm  ;  it  will  burst  anon  in  all  its  fury. 
Could  I  but  reach  yonder  window  !  " 

"  Thou  wilt  but  injure  thyself  by  the  attempt,  noble  knight," 
19 


290  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

replied  his  attendant.  Observing  his  extreme  sohcitude,  she  firmly 
added,  "  I  myself  will  stand  at  the  lattice,  and  describe  to  you  as  I 
can  what  passes  without." 

"You  must  not!  you  shall  not!"  exclaimed  Ivanhoe.  "Each 
lattice,  each  aperture,  will  be  soon  a  mark  for  the  archers.  Some 
random  shaft  —  " 

"  It  shall  be  welcome,"  murmured  Rebecca,  as  with  firm  pace  she 
ascended  two  or  three  steps  which  led  to  the  window  of  which  they 
spoke. 

"  Rebecca,  dear  Rebecca,"  exclaimed  Ivanhoe,  "this  is  no  maid- 
en's pastime.  Do  not  expose  thyself  to  wounds  and  death,  and 
render  me  forever  miserable  for  having  given  the  occasion.  At 
least  cover  thyself  with  yonder  ancient  buckler,  and  show  as  little 
of  your  person  at  the  lattice  as  may  be." 

Following,  with  wonderful  promptitude,  the  directions  of  Ivanhoe, 
and  avaihng  herself  of  the  protection  of  the  large  ancient  shield, 
which  she  placed  against  the  lower  part  of  the  window,  Rebecca, 
with  tolerable  security  to  herself,  could  witness  part  of  what  was 
passing  without  the  castle,  and  report  to  Ivanhoe  the  preparations 
which  the  assailants  were  making  for  the  storm.  Indeed,  the  situa- 
tion which  she  thus  obtained  was  peculiarly  favorable  for  this  pur- 
pose, because,  being  placed  on  an  angle  of  the  main  building,  Re- 
becca could  not  only  see  what  passed  beyond  the  precincts  of  the 
castle,  but  also  commanded  a  view  of  the  outwork  likely  to  be  the 
first  object  of  the  meditated  assault.  It  was  an  exterior  fortification 
of  no  great  height  or  strength,  intended  to  protect  the  postern  gate, 
through  which  Cedric  had  been  recently  dismissed  by  Front-de- 
Boeuf  The  castle  moat  divided  this  species  of  barbican  from  the 
rest  of  the  fortress,  so  that,  in  case  of  its  being  taken,  it  was  easy 
to  cut  off  the  communication  with  the  main  buildingxby  withdrawing 
the  tempoi  iry  bridge.  In  the  outwork  was  a  sally-port  correspond- 
ing to  the  postern  of  the  castle,  and  the  whole  was  surrounded  by  a 
strong  palisade.  Rebecca  could  observe,  from  the  number  of  men 
placed  for  the  defence  of  this  post,  that  the  besieged  entertained  ap- 
prehensions for  its  safety  ;  and  from  the  mustering  of  the  assailants 
in  a  direction  nearly  opposite  to  the  outwork,  it  seemed  no  less  plain 
that  it  had  been  selected  as  a  vulnerable  point  of  attack. 

These  appearances  she  hastily  communicated  to  Ivanhoe,  and 
added,  "  The  skirts  of  the  wood  seem  lined  with  archers,  although 
only  a  few  are  advanced  from  its  dark  shadow." 

"  Under  what  banner  ?  "  asked  Ivanhoe. 


SIR   WALTER   SCOTT.  29I 

"  Under  no  ensign  of  war  which  I  can  observe,"  answered  Re- 
becca. 

"  A  singular  novelty,"  muttered  the  knight,  "  to  advance  to  storm 
such  a  castle  without  pennon  or  banner  displayed  !  Seest  thou  who 
they  be  that  act  as  leaders  .''  " 

"  A  knight  clad  in  sable  armor  is  the  most  conspicuous,"  said  the 
Jewess.  "  He  alone  is  armed  from  head  to  heel,  and  seems  to  as- 
sume the  direction  of  all  around  him." 

"  What  device  does  he  bear  on  his  shield  ? "  replied  Ivanhoe. 

"  Something  resembling  a  bar  of  iron,  and  a  padlock,  painted  blue, 
on  the  black  shield." 

"A  fetterlock  and  shacklebolt  azure,"  said  Ivanhoe.  "I  know 
not  who  may  bear  the  device,  but  well  I  ween  it  might  now  be  mine 
own.     Canst  thou  not  see  the  motto  .? " 

"  Scarce  the  device  itself  at  this  distance,"  replied  Rebecca;  "but 
when  the  sun  glances  fair  upon  his  shield,  it  shows  as  I  tell  you." 

"  Seem  there  no  other  leaders  ?  "  exclaimed  the  anxious  inquirer. 

"  None  of  mark  and  distinction  that  I  can  behold  from  this  sta- 
tion," said  Rebecca  ;  "  but,  doubtless,  the  other  side  of  the  castle  is 
also  assailed.  They  appear  even  now  preparing  to  advance.  God 
of  Zion  protect  us  !  What  a  dreadful  sight  !  Those  who  advance 
first  bear  huge  shields,  and  defences  made  of  plank  ;  the  others  fol- 
low, bending  their  bows  as  they  come  on.  They  raise  their  bows  ! 
God  of  Moses,  forgive  the  creatures  thou  hast  made  ! " 

Her  description  was  here  suddenly  interrupted  by  the  signal  fof 
assault,  which  was  given  by  the  blast  of  a  shrill  bugle,  and  at  once 
answered  by  a  flourish  of  the  Norman  trumpets  from  the  battle- 
ments, which,  mingled  with  the  deep  and  hollow  clang  of  the  nakers 
(a  species  of  kettle-drum),  retorted  in  notes  of  defiance  the  chal- 
lenge of  the  enemy.  The  shouts  of  both  parties  augmented  the 
jearful  din,  the  assailants  crying,  "  St.  George  for  merry  England !  " 
and  the  Normans  answering  them  with  cries  of  "  En  avant,  De 
Bracy !  Beau-seant !  Beau-seant !  Front-de-Boeuf  a  la  rescousse  !  " 
according  to  the  war-cries  of  their  different  commanders. 

It  was  not,  however,  by  clamor  that  the  contest  was  to  be  decided, 
and  the  desperate  efforts  of  the  assailants  were  met  by  an  equally 
vigorous  defence  en  the  part  of  the  besieged.  The  archers,  trained 
by  their  woodland  pastimes  to  the  most  effective  use  of  the  long- 
bow, shot,  to  use  the  appropriate  phrase  of  the  time,  so  "  wholly  to- 
gether," that  no  point  at  which  a  defender  could  show  the  least  part 
of  his  person  escaped  their  cloth-yard  shafts.     By  this  heavy  dis- 


292  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

charge,  which  continued  as  thick  and  sharp  as  hail,  while,  notwith- 
standing every  arrow  had  its  individual  aim,  and  flew  by  scores 
together  against  each  embrasure  and  opening  in  the  parapets,  as 
well  as  at  every  window  where  a  defender  either  occasionally  had 
post  or  might  be  suspected  to  be  stationed,  —  by  this  sustained  dis- 
charge two  or  three  of  the  garrison  were  slain,  and  several  others 
wounded.  But,  confident  in  their  armor  of  proof,  and  in  the  cover 
which  their  situation  afforded,  the  followers  of  Front-de-Bceuf  and 
his  allies  showed  an  obstinacy  in  defence  proportioned  to  the  fury  of 
the  attack,  and  replied  with  the  discharge  of  their  large  cross-bows, 
as  well  as  with  their  long-bows,  slings,  and  other  missile  weapons, 
to  the  close  and  continued  shower  of  arrows,  and,  as  the  assailants 
were  necessarily  but  indifferently  protected,  did  considerably  more 
damage  than  they  received  at  their  hand.  The  whizzing  of  shafts 
and  of  missiles,  on  both  sides,  was  only  interrupted  by  the  shouts 
which  arose  when  either  side  inflicted  or  sustained  some  notable  loss. 

"  And  I  must  lie  here  like  a  bedridden  monk,"  exclaimed  Ivan- 
hoe,  "  while  the  game  that  gives  me  freedom  or  death  is  played  out 
by  the  hand  of  others  !  Look  from  the  window  once  again,  kind 
maiden,  but  beware  that  you  are  not  marked  by  the  archers  beneath 
—  look  out  once  more,  and  tell  me  if  they  yet  advance  to  the  storm." 

With  patient  courage,  strengthened  by  the  interval  which  she  had 
employed  in  mental  devotion,  Rebecca  again  took  post  at  the  lattice, 
sheltering  herself,  however,  so  as  not  to  be  visible  from  beneath. 

"  What  dost  thou  see,  Rebecca  1 "  again  demanded  the  wounded 
knight. 

"  Nothing  but  the  cloud  of  arrows  flying  so  thick  as  to  dazzle 
mine  eyes,  and  to  hide  the  bowmen  who  shoot  them." 

"  That  cannot  endure,"  said  Ivanhoe.  "If  they  press  not  right 
on  to  carry  the  castle  by  pure  force  of  arms,  the  archery  may  avail 
but  little  against  stone  walls  and  bulwarks.  Look  for  the  Knight  of 
the  Fetterlock,  fair  Rebecca,  and  see  how  he  bears  himself;  for  as 
the  leader  is,  so  will  his  followers  be." 

"  I  see  him  not,"  said  Rebecca. 

"  Foul  craven  !  "  exclaimed  Ivanhoe  ;  "does  he  blench  from  the 
helm  when  the  wind  blows  highest !  " 

"He  blenches  not  —  he  blenches  not,"  said  Rebecca.  "I  see 
him  now :  he  heads  a  body  of  men  close  under  the  outer  barrier  of 
the  barbican.  They  pull  down  the  piles  and  palisades  ;  they  hew 
down  the  barriers  with  axes.  His  high,  black  plume  floats  abroad 
over  the  throng  like  a  raven  over  the  field  of  the  slain.     They  have 


SIR   WALTER   SCOTT.  293 

made  a  breach  in  the  barriers  ;  they  rush  in  ;  they  are  thrust  back. 
Front-de-Bceuf  heads  the  defenders  :  I  see  his  gigantic  form  above 
the  press.  They  throng  again  to  the  breach,  and  the  pass  is  disputed 
hand  to  hand  and  man  to  man.  God  of  Jacob  !  it  is  the  meeting  of 
two  fierce  tides  —  the  conflict  of  two  oceans  moved  by  adverse 
winds." 

She  turned  her  head  from  the  lattice,  as  if  unable  longer  to  endure 
a  sight  so  terrible. 

"  Look  forth  again,  Rebecca,"  said  Ivanhoe,  mistaking  the  cause 
of  her  retiring.  "  The  archery  must  in  some  degree  have  ceased, 
since  they  are  now  fighting  hand  to  hand.  Look  again ;  there  is 
now  less  danger." 

Rebecca  again  looked  forth,  and  almost  immediately  exclaimed, 
"  Holy  prophets  of  the  law  !  Front-de-Boeuf  and  the  Black  Knight 
fight  hand  to  hand  on  the  breach,  amid  the  roar  of  their  followers, 
who  watch  the  progress  of  the  strife.  Heaven  strike  with  the  cause 
of  the  oppressed  and  of  the  captive  !  "  She  then  uttered  a  loud 
shriek,  and  exclaimed,  "  He  is  down  !  he  is  down  !  " 

"  Who  is  down  ?  "  cried  Ivanhoe.  "  For  our  dear  Lady's  sake,  tell 
me  which  has  fallen." 

"  The  Black  Knight,"  answered  Rebecca,  faintly  ;  then  instantly 
again  shouted,  with  joyful  eagerness,  "  but  no  !  but  no  !  —  the  name 
of  the  Lord  of  Hosts  be  blessed  !  —  he  is  on  foot  again,  and  fights 
as  if  there  were  twenty  men's  strength  in  his  single  arm  ;  his  sword 
is  broken  ;  he  snatches  an  axe  from  a  yeoman  ;  he  presses  Front- 
de-Bceuf  with  blow  on  blow.  The  giant  stoops  and  totters  like  an. 
oak  under  the  steel  of  the  woodman  ;  he  falls  !  he  falls  !  " 

"Front-de-Boeuf?"  exclaimed  Ivanhoe. 

"  Front-de-Bceuf,"  answered  the  Jewess.  "  His  men  rush  to  the 
rescue,  headed  by  the  haughty  templar  ;  their  united  force  compels 
the  champion  to  pause  ;  they  drag  Front-de-Boeuf  within  the  walls." 

"  The  assailants  have  won  the  barriers  —  have  they  not  ?  "  said 
Ivanhoe. 

"  They  have  !  they  have  !  "  exclaimed  Rebecca  ;  "  and  they  press 
the  besieged  hard  upon  the  outer  wall.  Some  plant  ladders  ;  some 
swarm  like  bees,  and  endeavor  to  ascend  upon  the  shoulder  of  each 
other.  Down  go  stones,  beams,  and  trunks  of  trees  upon  their 
heads  ;  and  as  fast  as  they  bear  the  wounded  to  the  rear,  fresh  men 
supply  their  places  in  the  assault.  Great  God,  hast  thou  given  men 
thine  own  image,  that  it  should  be  thus  cruelly  defaced  by  the  hands 
of  their  brethren  !  " 


294  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

"  Think  not  of  that,"  said  Ivanhoe  ;  "  this  is  no  time  ibr  such 
thoughts  —  who  yield  ?  who  push  their  way  ?  " 

"The  ladders  are  thrown  down,"  replied  Rebecca,  shuddering; 
"  the  soldiers  lie  grovelling  under  them  like  crushed  reptiles  —  the 
besieged  have  the  better." 

"  St.  George  strike  for  us  !  "  exclaimed  the  knight ;  "  do  the 
false  yeomen  give  way  ?  " 

"  No  !  "  exclaimed  Rebecca,  "  they  bear  themselves  right  yeoman- 
ly;  the  Black  Knight  approaches  the  postern  with  his  huge  axe; 
the  thundering  blows  which  he  deals,  you  may  hear  them  above  all 
the  din  and  shouts  of  the  battle  ;  stones  and  beams  are  hailed  down 
on  the  bold  champion  ;  he  regards  them  no  more  than  if  they  were 
thistle-down  or  feathers  !  " 

"  By  St.  John  of  Acre,"  said  Ivanhoe,  raising  himself  joyfully  on 
his  couch,  "methought  there  was  but  one  man  in  England  that 
might  do  such  a  deed  !  " 

"  The  postern  gate  shakes,"  continued  Rebecca  ;  "  it  crashes  ;  it 
is  splintered  by  his  blows  ;  they  rush  in  ;  the  outwork  is  won.  O 
God  !  they  hurl  the  defenders  from  the  battlements  ;  they  throw 
them  into  the  moat.  O,  men,  if  ye  be  indeed  men,  spare  them  that 
can  resist  no  longer  !  " 

"  The  bridge  —  the  bridge  which  communicates  with  the  castle  — 
have  they  won  that  pass  ?  "  exclaimed  Ivanhoe. 

"  No,"  replied  Rebecca,  "  the  templar  has  destroyed  the  plank  on 
which  they  crossed  ;  few  of  the  defenders  escaped  with  him  into  the 
castle ;  the  shrieks  and  cries  which  you  hear  tell  the  fate  of  the 
others.  Alas  !  I  see  it  is  still  more  difficult  to  look  upon  victory 
than  upon  battle." 

"What  do  they  now,  maiden?"  said  Ivanhoe;  "look  forth  yet 
again  ;  this  is  no  time  to  faint  at  bloodshed." 

"  It  is  over  for  the  time,"  answered  Rebecca  ;  "  our  friends 
strengthen  themselves  within  the  outwork  which  they  have  mastered  ; 
and  it  affords  them  so  good  a  shelter  from  the  foeman's  shot,  that 
the  garrison  only  bestow  a  few  bolts  on  it  from  interval  to  interval, 
as  if  rather  to  disquiet  than  effectually  to  injure  them." 

"  Our  friends,"  said  Wilfred,  "will  surely  not  abandon  an  enter- 
prise so  gloriously  begun  and  so  happily  attained.  O,  no  !  I  will 
put  my  faith  in  the  good  knight  whose  axe  hath  rent  heart-of-oak 
and  bars  of  iron.  Singular,"  he  again  muttered  to  himself,  "  if  there 
be  two  who  can  do  a  deed  of  such  derring-do  !  '  —  a  fetterlock  and  a 

1  Desperate  courage. 


SIR   WALTER   SCOTT.  295 

shacklebolt  on  a  field-sable  —  what  may  that  mean  ?  Seest  thou 
nought  else,  Rebecca,  by  which  the  Black  Knight  may  be  dis- 
tinguished ?  " 

"  Nothing,"  said  the  Jewess  ;  "  all  about  him  is  black  as  the  wing 
of  the  night-raven.  Nothing  can  I  spy  that  can  mark  him  further  ; 
but  having  once  seen  him  put  forth  his  strength  in  battle,  methinks 
I  could  know  him  again  among  a  thousand  warriors.  He  rushes  to 
the  fray  as  if  he  were  summoned  to  a  banquet.  There  is  more  than 
mere  strength  ;  there  seems  as  if  the  whole  soul  and  spirit  of  the 
champion  were  given  to  every  blow  which  he  deals  upon  his  enemies. 
God  assoilzie  him  of  the  sin  of  bloodshed  !  It  is  fearful,  yet  mag- 
nificent, to  behold  how  the  arm  and  heart  of  one  man  can  triumph 
over  hundreds." 

"  Rebecca,"  said  Ivanhoe,  "  thou  hast  painted  a  hero  ;  surely  they 
rest  but  to  refresh  their  force,  or  to  provide  the  means  of  crossing 
the  moat.  Under  such  a  leader  as  thou  hast  spoken  this  knight  to  be, 
there  are  no  craven  fears,  no  cold-blooded  delays,  no  yielding  up  a 
gallant  emprise  ;  since  the  difficulties  which  render  it  arduous  render 
it  also  glorious.  I  swear  by  the  honor  of  my  house,  I  vow  by  the 
name  of  my  bright  lady-love,  I  would  endure  ten  years'  captivity  to 
fight  one  day  by  that  good  knight's  side  in  such  a  quarrel  as  this  !  " 

"  Alas  !  "  said  Rebecca,  leaving  her  station  at  the  window,  and  ap- 
proaching the  couch  of^he  wounded  knight,  "this  impatient  yearn- 
ing after  action,  this  struggling  with  and  repining  at  your  present 
weakness,  will  not  fail  to  injure  your  returning  health.  How  couldst 
thou  hope  to  inflict  wounds  on  others  ere  that  be  healed  which  thou 
thyself  hast  received  ?  " 

"  Rebecca,"  he  replied,  "  thou  knowest  not  how  impossible  it  is 
for  one  trained  to  actions  of  chivalry  to  remain  passive  as  a  priest, 
or  a  woman,  when  they  are  acting  deeds  of  honor  around  him.  The 
love  of  battle  is  the  food  upon  which  we  live  ;  the  dust  of  the  melee 
is  the  breath  of  our  nostrils  !  We  live  not ;  we  wish  not  to  live 
longer  than  while  we  are  \nctorious  and  renowned.  Such,  maiden, 
are  the  laws  of  chivalry  to  which  we  are  sworn,  and  to  which  we 
offer  all  tha*-  we  hold  dear." 

"Alas  !  "  ^aid  the  fair  Jewess,  "  and  what  is  it,  valiant  knight,  save 
an  offering  of  sacrifice  to  a  demon  of  vain-glory,  and  a  passing 
through  the  fire  to  Moloch  ?  What  remains  to  you  as  the  prize  of 
all  the  blood  you  have  spilled,  of  all  the  travail  and  pain  you  have 
endured,  of  all  the  tears  which  your  deeds  have  caused,  when  death 
hath  broken  the  strong  man's  spear,  and  overtaken  the  speed  of  his 
war-horse  1 " 


290  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

"  What  remains  ? "  cried  Ivanhoe  ;  "  glory,  maiden,  glory  !  which 
gilds  our  sepulchre  and  embalms  our  name." 

"  Glory  I  "  continued  Rebecca  ;  "  alas  !  is  the  rusted  mail  which 
hangs  as  a  hatchment  over  the  champion's  dim  and  mouldering 
tomb,  is  the  defaced  sculpture  of  the  inscription  which  the  ignorant 
monk  can  hardly  read  to  the  inquiring  pilgrim,  are  these  sufficient 
rewards  for  the  sacrifice  of  every  kindly  affection,  for  a  life  spent 
miserably  that  ye  may  make  others  miserable  ?  Or  is  there  such 
virtue  in  the  rude  rhymes  of  a  wandering  bard,  that  domestic  love, 
kindly  affection,  peace  and  happiness,  are  so  wildly  bartered  to 
become  the  hero  of  those  ballads  which  vagabond  minstrels  sing  to 
drunken  churls  over  their  evening  ale  ?  " 

"  By  the  soul  of  Hereward  !  "  replied  the  knight,  impatiently, 
"  thou  speakest,  maiden,  of  thou  knowest  not  what.  Thou  wouldst 
quench  the  pure  light  of  chivalry,  which  alone  distinguishes  the 
noble  from  the  base,  the  gentle  knight  from  the  churl  and  the 
savage  ;  which  rates  our  life  far,  far  beneath  the  pitch  of  our  honor  ; 
raises  us  victorious  over  pain,  toil,  and  suffering,  and  teaches  us  to 
fear  no  evil  but  disgrace.  Thou  art  no  Christian,  Rebecca  ;  and  to 
thee  are  unknown  those  high  feelings  which  swell  the  bosom  of  a 
noble  maiden  when  her  lover  hath  done  some  deed  of  emprise  which 
sanctions  his  flame.  Chivalry !  why,  maiden,  she  is  the  nurse  of 
pure  and  high  affection,  the  stay  of  the  oppressed,  the  redresser  of 
grievances,  the  curb  of  the  power  of  the  tyrant ;  nobility  were  but 
an  empty  name  without  her,  and  liberty  finds  the' best  protection  in 
her  lance  and  her  sword." 

"  I  am,  indeed,"  said  Rebecca,  "  sprung  from  a  race  whose  cour- 
age was  distinguished  in  the  defence  of  their  own  land,  but  who 
warred  not,  even  while  yet  a  nation,  save  at  the  command  of  the 
Deity,  or  in  defending  their  country  from  oppression.  The  sound  of 
the  trumpet  wakes  Judah  no  longer,  and  her  despised  children  are 
now  but  the  unresisting  victims  of  hostile  and  military  oppression. 
Well  hast  thou  spoken,  sir  knight  —  until  the  God  of  Jacob  shall 
raise  up  for  his  chosen  people  a  second  Gideon,  or  a  new  Maccabeus, 
it  ill  beseemeth  the  Jewish  damsel  to  speak  of  battle  or  of  war." 

The  'high-minded  maiden  concluded  the  argument  in  a  tone  of 
sorrow,  which  deeply  expressed  her  sense  of  the  degradation  of  her 
people,  embittered  perhaps  by  the  idea  that  Ivanhoe  considered  her 
as  one  not  entitled  to  interfere  in  a  case  of  honor,  and  incapable  of 
entertaining  or  expressing  sentiments  of  honor  and  generosity. 

"  How  little  he  knows  this  bosom/'  she  said,  "  to  imagine  that 


SIR   WALTER   SCOTT.  297 

cowardice  or  meanness  of  soul  must  needs  be  its  guest,  because  I 
have  censured  the  fantastic  chivalry  of  the  Nazarenes  !  Would  to 
Heaven  that  the  shedding  of  mine  own  blood,  drop  by  drop,  could 
redeem  the  captivity  of  Judah  !  Nay,  would  to  God  it  could  avail  to 
set  free  my  father,  and  this  his  benefactor,  from  the  chains  of  the 
oppressor!  The  proud  Christian  should  then  see  whether  the 
daughter  of  God's  chosen  people  dared  not  to  die  as  bravely  as  the 
vainest  Nazarene  maiden  that  boasts  her  descent  from  some  petty 
chieftain  of  the  rude  and  frozen  north  !  " 


YOUNG   LOCHINVAR. 

[Lady  Heron's  Song  in  Marmion.] 

O,  YOUNG  Lochinvar  is  come  out  of  the  west ; 
Through  all  the  wide  Border  his  steed  was  the  best  ; 
And  save  his  good  broadsword  he  weapon  had  none  ; 
He  rode  all  unarmed,  and  he  rode  all  alone ! 
So  faithful  in  love,  and  so  dauntless  in  war, 
There  never  was  knight  like  the  young  Lochinvar ! 

He  staid  not  for  brake,  and  he  stopped  not  for  stone  ; 

He  swam  the  Esk  River  where  ford  there  was  none  ; 

But,  ere  he  alighted  at  Netherby  gate. 

The  bride  had  consented,  the  gallant  came  late ; 

For  a  laggard  in  love,  and  a  dastard  in  war, 

Was  to  wed  the  fair  Ellen  of  brave  Lochinvar. 

So  boldly  he  entered  the  Netherby  Hall, 

'Mong  bridesmen,  and  kinsmen,  and  brothers,  and  all ! 

Then  spoke  the  bride's  father,  his  hand  on  his  sword,  - 

For  the  poor  craven  bridegroom  said  never  a  word,  — 

"  O,  come  ye  in  peace  here,  or  come  ye  in  war  ? 

Or  to  dance  at  our  bridal,  young  Lord  Lochinvar  ? " 

"  I  long  wooed  your  daughter  ;  my  suit  you  denied  : 
Love  swells  like  the  Solway,  but  ebbs  like  its  tide ; 
And  now  am  I  come,  with  this  lost  love  of  mine. 
To  lead  but  one  measure,  drink  one  cup  of  wine. 
There  be  maidens  in  Scotland,  more  lovely  by  far, 
That  would  gladly  be  bride  to  the  young  Lochinvar." 


298  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

The  bride  kissed  the  goblet ;  the  knight  took  it  up  ; 
He  quaffed  off  the  wine,  and  he  threw  down  the  cup. 
She  looked  down  to  blush,  and  she  looked  up  to  sigh, 
With  a  smile  on  her  lips  and  a  tear  in  her  eye. 
He  took  her  soft  hand,  ere  her  mother  could  bar  — 
"  Now  tread  we  a  measure,"  said  young  Lochinvar. 

So  stately  his  form,  and  so  lovely  her  face, 

That  never  a  hall  such  a  galliard  did  grace  ! 

While  her  mother  did  fret,  and  her  father  did  fume. 

And  the  bridegroom  stood  dangling  his  bonnet  and  plume. 

And  the  bridemaidens  whispered,  "  'Twere  better  by  far 

To  have  matched  our  fair  cousin  with  young  Lochinvar  !  " 

One  touch  to  her  hand,  and  one  word  in  her  ear, 
When  they  reached  the  hall-door,  and  the  charger  stood  near  ; 
.  So  light  to  the  croupe  the  fair  lady  he  swung, 
So  light  to  the  saddle  before  her  he  sprung ! 
"  She  is  won  !  we  are  gone,  over  bank,  bush,  and  scaur  ; 
They'll  have  fleet  steeds  that  follow  !  "  quoth  young  Lochinvar. 

There  was  mounting  'mong  Graemes  of  the  Netherby  cbn  ; 

Forsters,  Fenwicks,  and  Musgraves,  they  rode  and  they  ran ; 

There  was  racing  and  chasing  on  Cannobie  Lea, 

But  the  lost  bride  of  Netherby  ne'er  did  they  see  ! 

So  daring  in  love,  and  so  dauntless  in  war. 

Have  ye  e'er  heard  of  gallant  like  young  Lochinvar  .'* 


MELROSE   ABBEY. 
[From  The  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel.] 
CANTO   II. 
I. 

If  thou  wouldst  view  fair  Melrose  aright, 
Go  visit  it  by  the  pale  moonlight ; 
For  the  gay  beams  of  lightsome  day 
Gild,  but  to  flout,  the  ruins  gray. 
When  the  broken  arches  are  black  in  night, 
And  each  shafted  oriel  glimmers  white  ; 
When  the  cold  light's  uncertain  shower 
Streams  on  the  ruined  central  tower  ; 


SIR   WALTER  SCOTT.  299 

When  buttress  and  buttress,  alternately, 

Seem  framed  of  ebon  and  ivory  ; 

When  silver  edges  the  imagery, 

And  the  scrolls  that  teach  thee  to  live  and  die ; 

When  distant  Tweed  is  heard  to  rave, 

And  the  owlet  to  hoot  o'er  the  dead  man's  grave, 

Then  go,  — but  go  alone  the  while,  — 

Then  view  St.  David's  ruined  pile  ; 

And,  home  returning,  soothly  swear, 

Was  never  scene  so  sad  and  fair  ! 

VII. 

Again  on  the  Knight  looked  the  Churchman  old. 

And  again  he  sighed  heavily  ; 
For  he  had  himself  been  a  warrior  bold, 

And  fought  in  Spain  and  Italy. 
And  he  thought  on  the  days  that  were  long  since  by. 
When  his  limbs  were  strong,  and  his  courage  was  high  : 
Now,  slow  and  faint,  he  led  the  way. 
Where,  cloistered  round,  the  garden  lay  ; 
The  pillared  arches  were  over  their  head. 
And  beneath  their  feet  were  the  bones  of  the  dead. 

VIII, 

Spreading  herbs  and  flowerets  bright 
Glistened  with  the  dew  of  night ; 
Nor  herb,  nor  floweret,  glistened  there. 
But  was  carved  in  the  cloister-arches  as  fair. 
The  Monk  gazed  long  on  the  lovely  moon, 

Then  into  the  night  he  looked  forth  ; 
And  red  and  bright  the  streamers  light 
Were  dancing  in  the  glowing  north. 
So  had  he  seen,  in  fair  Castile, 

The  youth  in  glittering  squadrons  start ; 
Sudden  the  flying  jennet  wheel. 
And  hurl  the  unexpected  dart. 
He  knew,  by  the  streamers  that  shot  so  brightj, 
That  spirits  were  riding  the  northern  light. 

IX. 

By  a  steel-clenched  postern  door. 
They  entered  now  the  chancel  tall ; 


300 


HAND-BOOK  OF  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 


The  darkened  roof  rose  high  aloof 

On  pillars  lofty,  and  light,  and  small : 
The  keystone,  that  locked  each  ribbed  aisle, 
Was  a  fleur-de-lis,  or  a  quatre-feuille  ; 
The  corbells  were  carved  grotesque  and  grim ; 
And  the  pillars,  with  clustered  shafts  so  trim, 
With  base  and  with  capital  flourished  around. 
Seemed  bundles  of  lances  which  garlands  had  bound 

XL 

The  moon  on  the  east  oriel  shone 
Through  slender  shafts  of  shapely  stone, 

By  foliaged  tracery  combined  ; 
Thou  wouldst  have  thought  some  fairy's  hand 
'Twixt  poplars  straight  the  osier  wand, 

In  many  a  freakish  knot,  had  twined  ; 
Then  framed  a  spell,  when  the  work  was  done. 
And  changed  the  willow-wreaths  to  stone. 
The  silver  light,  so  pale  and  faint, 
Showed  many  a  prophet,  and  many  a  saint, 

Whose  image  on  the  glass  was  dyed ; 
Full  in  the  midst,  his  Cross  of  Red 
Triumphant  Michael  brandished. 

And  trampled  the  Apostate's  pride. 
The  moonbeam  kissed  the  holy  pane. 
And  threw  on  the  pavement  a  bloody  stain. 


PIBROCH    OF   DONALD   DHU. 


Pibroch  of  Donuil  Dhu, 

Pibroch  of  Donuil, 
Wake  thy  wild  voice  anewi 

Summon  Clan  Conuil. 
Come  away,  come  away ; 

Hark  to  the  summons  ! 
Come  in  your  war  array, 

Gentles  and  Commons  1 

Come  from  deep  glen,  and 

From  mountain  so  rocky ; 
The  war-pipe  and  pennon 

Are  at  Inverlochy. 
Come  every  hill-plaid,  and 

True  heart  that  wears  one ; 
Come  every  steel  blade,  and 

Strong  hand  that  bears  one  ! 


Leave  untended  the  herd. 

The  flock  without  shelter  ; 
Leave  the  corpse  uninterred, 

The  bride  at  the  altar. 
Leave  the  deer,  leave  the  steer. 

Leave  nets  and  barges ; 
Come  with  your  fighting-gear. 

Broadswords  and  targes. 

Come  as  the  winds  come,  when 

Forests  are  rended ; 
Come  as  the  waves  come,  when 

Navies  are  stranded. 
Faster  come,  faster  come. 

Faster  and  faster : 
Chiefj  vassal,  page,  and  groom, 

Tenant  and  master. 


JAMES   MONTGOMERY. 


301 


Fast  th^y  come,  ft.st  they  come ; 

See  how  they  gather  ! 
Wide  waves  the  eagle  plume, 

Blended  with  heather. 


Cast  your  plaids,  draw  your  blades, 

Forward  each  n.an  set ; 
Pibroch  of  Donuil  Dhu, 

Knell  for  the  onset  ! 


THE   SONG   OF   REBECCA. 


[From  Ivanhoe.] 


When  Israel,  of  the  Lord  beloved. 

Out  from  the  land  of  bondage  came, 
Her  fathers'  God  before  her  moved. 

An  awful  guide,  in  smoke  and  flame. 
By  day,  along  the  astonislied  lands. 

The  cloudy  pillar  glided  slow ; 
By  night,  Arabia's  crimsoned  sands 

Returned  the  fiery  colunm's  glow. 

There  rose  the  choral  hymn  of  praise. 

And  trump  and  timbrel  answered  keen  ; 
And  Zion's  daughters  poured  their  lays, 

With  priest's  and  warrior's  voice  between. 
No  portents  now  our  foes  amaze  ; 

Forsaken  Israel  wanders  lone  ; 
Our  fathers  would  not  know  Thy  ways. 

And  Thou  hast  left  them  to  their  Ovvn. 


But,  present  still,  though  now  unseen  ! 

When  brightly  shines  the  prosperous  day 
Be  thoughts  of  Thee  a  cloudy  screen. 

To  temper  the  deceitful  ray. 
And  O,  when  stoops  on  Judah's  path 

In  shade  and  storm  the  frequent  night, 
Be  Thou,  long  suffering,  slow  to  wrath, 

A  burning  and  a  shining  light ! 

Our  harps  we  left  by  Babel's  streams. 

The  tyrant's  jest,  the  Gentile's  scorn  ; 
No  censer  round  our  altar  beams, 

And  mute  are  timbrel,  trump,  and  horn. 
But  Thou  hast  said,  "The  blood  of  goat, 

The  flesh  of  rams,  I  will  not  prize; 
A  contrite  heart,  a  humble  thought. 

Are  mine  accepted  sacrifice." 


JAMES  MONTGOMERY. 


James  Montgomery  was  born  in  Scotland  in  1771.  Being  the  son  of  a  Moravian  mis- 
sionary, he  was  educated  at  the  Moravian  school  at  Fulneck,  near  Letds.  He  subsequently 
became  the  editor  of  the  Sheffield  Iris,  a  liberal  journal,  which  he  conducted  with  great 
ability.  He  was  twice  fined  and  imprisoned  for  articles  which  the  government  deemed 
libellous.  The  principal  poems  of  Montgomery  are.  The  Wanderer  of  Switzerland,  The 
West  Indies,  The  World  Before  the  Flood,  Greenland,  and  The  Pelican  Island.  They  are 
all  marked  by  smoothness  of  diction,  considerable  descriptive  power,  and  strong  religious 
feeling.  His  devotional  hymns<«rfe  simple,  tender,  and  fervent.  He  received  a  pension  of 
three  hundred  pounds,  in  1833,  which  he  enjoyed  till  his  death,  in  1854. 

THE   RECLUSE. 


A  FOUNTAIN  issuing  into  light 
Before  a  marble  palace,  threw 

To  heaven  its  column,  pure  and  bright, 
Returning  thence  in  showers  of  dew ; 

But  soon  a  humbler  course  it  took. 

And  glid  away  a  nameless  brook. 

Flowers  on  its  grassy  margin  sprang. 

Flies  o'er  its  eddying  surface  played. 
Birds  'midst  the  alder-branches  sang, 


Flocks  through  the  verdant  meadowt 
The  weary  there  lay  down  to  rest,  [strayed  ; 
And  there  the  halcyon  built  her  nest. 

'Twas  beautiful  to  stand  and  watch 
The  fountain's  crystal  turn  to  gems, 

And  from  the  sky  such  colors  catch 
As  if  'twere  raining  diadems  ; 

Yet  all  was  cold  and  curious  art. 

That  charmed  the  eye,  but  missed  the  heart 


302 


HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 


Dearer  to  me  the  little  stream, 
Whose  unimprisoned  waters  run. 

Wild  as  the  changes  of  a  dream. 

By  rock  and  glen,  through  shade  and  sun  ; 

Its  lovely  links  had  power  to  bind 

In  welcome  chains  my  wandering  mind. 

So  thought  I  when  I  saw  the  face. 

By  happy  portraiture  revealed, 
Of  one  adorned  with  every  grace, 

Her  name  and  date  from  me  concealed, 
But  not  her  story  ;  she  had  been 
The  pride  of  many  a  splendid  scene. 


She  cast  her  glory  round  a  court, 
And  frolicked  in  the  gayest  ring. 

Where  fashion's  high-born  minions  sport 
Like  sparkling  fireflies  on  the  wing ; 

But  thence  when  love  had  touched  her  sou^ 

To  nature  and  to  truth  she  stole. 

From  din,  and  pageantry,  and  strife, 
'Midst  woods  and  mountains,  vales  and 

She  treads  the  paths  of  lowly  life,       [plains^ 
Yet  in  a  bosom-circle  reigns, 

No  fountain  scattering  diamond-showers. 

But  the  sweet  streamlet  watering  flowers. 


ARNOLD   OF   WINKELRIED. 


[On  the  achievement  of  Arnold  de  Winkelried  at  the  battle  of  Sempach,  i»  which  the 
Swiss  insurgents  secured  the  freedom  of  their  country,  against  the  power  of  Austria,  in  the 
fourteenth  century.] 


*'  Make  way  for  liberty  !  "  he  cried  ; 
Made  way  for  liberty,  and  died. 

In  arms  the  Austrian  phalanx  stood, 
A  living  wall,  a  human  wood ; 
A  wall,  —  where  every  conscious  stone 
Seemed  to  its  kindred  thousands  grown, 
A  rampart  all  assaults  to  bear, 
Till  time  to  dust  their  frames  should  wear ; 
A  wood,  —  like  that  enf  hanted  grove 
In  which  with  fiends  Rinaldo  strove. 
Where  every  silent  tree  possessed 
A  spirit  imprisoned  in  its  breast. 
Which  the  first  stroke  of  coming  strife 
Might  startle  into  hideous  life : 
So  still,  so  dense  the  Austrians  stood, 
A  living  wall,  a  human  wood. 
Impregnable  their  front  appears, 
All-horrent  with  projected  spears, 
Whose  polished  points  before  them  shine. 
From  flank  to  flank,  one  brilliant  line. 
Bright  as  the  breakers'  splendors  run 
Along  the  billows  to  the  sun. 

Opposed  to  these,  a  hovering  band 

Contended  for  their  fatherland  ; 

Peasants,    whose    new-found    strength  had 

broke 
From  manly  necks  th'  ignoble  yoke, 
And  beat  their  fetters  into  swords. 
On  equal  terms  to  fight  their  lords. 
And  what  insurgent  rage  had  gained, 
In  many  a  mortal  fray  maintained. 
Marshalled  once  more,  at  freedom's  call 


They  came  to  conquer  or  to  fall. 
Where  he  who  conquered,  he  who  fell. 
Was  deemed  a  dead  or  living  Tell ; 
Such  virtue  had  that  pati  iot  breathed. 
So  to  the  soil  his  soul  bequeathed, 
Th:it  wheresoe'er  his  arrows  flew, 
Heroes  in  his  own  likeness  grew. 
And  warriors  sprang  from  every  sod. 
Which  his  awakening  footstep  trod. 

And  now  the  work  of  life  and  death 

Hung  on  the  passing  of  a  breath  ; 

The  fire  of  conflict  burned  within. 

The  battle  trembled  to  begin  ; 

Yet  while  the  Austrians  held  their  ground. 

Point  for  assault  was  nowhere  fountl ; 

Where'er  th'  impatient  Switzers  gazed, 

Th'  unbroken  line  of  lances  blazed  ; 

That  line  'tw^e  suicide  to  meet. 

And  perish  at  their  tyrants'  feet ; 

How  could  they  rest  within  their  graves, 

To  leave  their  homes  the  haunts  of  slaves? 

Would  they  not  feel  their  children  tread. 

With  clanking  chains,  above  their  head? 

It  must  not  be  ;  this  day,  this  hour 
Annihilates  the  invader's  power ; 
All  Switzerland  is  in  the  field, 
She  wi  1  not  fly,  she  cannot  yield, 
She  must  not  fall ;  her  better  fate 
Here  gives  her  an  immortal  date. 
Few  were  the  numbers  she  could  boast. 
Yet  every  freeman  was  a  host, 
And  felt  as  'twere  a  secret  kr.own. 


SYDNEY    SMITH. 


303 


That  one  should  turn  the  scale  alone, 
While  each  unto  himself  was  he, 
On  whose  sole  arm  hung  victory. 

It  did  depend  on  one  indeed  ; 

Behold  him  —  Arnold  Winkelried  ; 

There  sounds  not  to  the  trump  of  fame 

The  echo  of  a  nobler  name. 

Unmarked  he  stood  amidst  the  throng. 

In  rumination  deep  and  long. 

Till  you  might  see,  with  sudden  grace. 

The  very  thought  come  o'er  his  face, 

And  by  the  motion  of  his  form 

Anticipate  the  bursting  storm. 

And  by  the  uplifting  of  his  brow 

Tell  where  tlie  bolt  would  strike,  and  how. 

But  'twas  no  sooner  thought  than  done  ; 
The  field  was  in  a  moment  won  ; 
"  Make  way  for  liberty  I "  he  cried. 


Then  ran,  with  arms  extended  wide. 

As  if  his  dearest  friend  to  clasp  ; 

Ten  spears  he  swept  within  his  grasp  ; 

"Make  way  for  liberty  !  "  he  cried ; 

Their  keen  points  crossed  from  side  to  side : 

He  bowed  amidst  (hem,  like  a  tree, 

And  thus  made  way  for  liberty. 

Swift  to  the  breach  his  comrades  fly  ; 
"  Make  way  for  liberty  !"  they  cry, 
And  through  the  Austrian  phalanx  dart, 
As  rushed  the  spears  through  Arnold's  heart 
While,  instantaneous  as  his  fall. 
Rout,  ruin,  panic  seized  them  all ; 
An  earthquake  could  not  overthrow 
A  city  with  a  surer  blow. 

Thus  Switzerland  again  was  free  : 
Thus  death  made  way  for  liberty. 


SYDNEY   SMITH. 

The  Rev.  Sydney  Smith  was  born  in  1771.  He  was  the  son  of  an  eccentric  Erglish 
gentleman,  who  had  married  an  extremely  beautiful  woman  from  Languedoc,  a  certain 
Mile.  Olier,  the  daughter  of  a  Protestant  emigrant.  Our  author's  vigorous  faculties  were 
Inherited  from  his  father ;  his  vivacity,  wit,  and  cheerful  temper  from  his  mother.  He 
was  educated  at  Winchester  and  at  Oxford ;  and  though  easily  chief  among  his  fallows 
in  the  niceties  of  classical  learning,  he  had  the  good  sense  to  retain  the  kernel  and  c'rop  tl.e 
shell,  instead  of  remaining  merely  a  first-form  boy  all  his  life,  as  some  scholars  c'o  here- 
abouts. He  used  to  say,  "  I  believe,  while  a  boy  at  school,  I  made  above  ten  thousand 
Latin  verses  ;  and  no  man  in  his  senses  would  dream  In  after  life  of  ever  making  another. 
So  much  for  life  and  time  wasted."  One  of  his  most  powerful  essaj^s,  written  in  maturity, 
Is  devoted  to  the  undue  prominence  given  to  mere  classical  learning  in  comparison  with 
general  culture  and  a  knowledge  of  the  more  practical  sciences.  He  became  a  curate  in  a 
small  village,  where  he  attracted  the  regard  of  the  "Squire,"  who  engaged  him  to  accom- 
pany his  son  to  Germany.  But,  the  war  breaking  out,  the  vessel  put  in  to  Scotland,  and 
there  Smith  remained  five  years.  At  this  time  the  Edinburgh  Review  was  established  by 
Jeffrey,  Smith,  Brougham,  Murray,  and  others.  Later  he  removed  to  London,  where  his 
career  as  preacher  and  essayist  began.  His  talents  were  sufficient  to  have  brought  him  to 
the  bench  of  bishops,  had  he  been  less  human  in  his  sensibilities,  less  witty,  or  more 
prudent  In  speech,  less  buoyant  in  spirits,  less  powerful  in  argument,  and  less  Independent 
In  temper.  The  prizes  of  the  English  church  were  not  for  such  men  as  Sydney  Smith.  He 
became  canon  of  St.  Paul's,  the  highest  dignity  for  whicli  he  could  hope. 

If  Jeremy  Taylor  is  allowed  to  be  his  superior  in  the  high  quality  of  Imagination  and  in 
affluence  of  diction  ;  if  Dean  Swift  surpassed  him  in  invention  and  downright  force  ;  if  Lamb 
was  more  quaintly  humorous  ;  if  Newton  was  more  salnt'y  ;  If  Burke  was  a  more  apt  con- 
structor of  the  balanced  Ciceronian  period :  if  Brougham  was  a  more  thunderous  advocate 
for  reform  ;  still,  It  must  be  allowed  that  in  native  manly  energy,  in  the  ready  use  of  clearly 
linked  sentences.  Informed  with  learning  and  brist'ing  with  unexpected  wit.  In  religious 
principle  combined  with  common  sense  In  Its  application,  in  the  foresight  of  a  liberal  states- 
man, controlled  by  a  wise  conservative's  caution,  no  writer,  either  lay  or  clerical,  in  the  last 
century  has  surpassed  Sydney  Smith. 


304  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

His  Essays  have  been  published  in  this  country  in  a  large  octavo  volume.  His  life,  in  two 
volumes,  has  been  written  by  his  daughter.  Lady  Holland.  It  is  not  easy  to  describe  the 
impression  made  by  his  life  in  his  daughter's  delightful  volumes.  A  collection  of  his  witti- 
cisms would  serve  as  a  basis  for  a  new  jest  book,  and  the  picture  of  his  innocent  gayety  and 
irrepressible  spirits  at  home  could  hardly  be  drawn  except  by  some  one  gifled  like  himself. 
He  died  in  1845. 

[From  Speeches  on  Parliamentary  Reform.] 

As  for  the  possibility  of  the  House  of  Lords  preventing  ere  long 
a  reform  of  Parliament,  I  hold  it  to  be  the  most  absurd  notion  that 
ever  entered  into  human  imagination.  I  do  not  mean  to  be  disre- 
spectful ;  but  the  attempt  of  the  lords  to  stop  the  progress  of  reform 
reminds  me  very  forcibly  of  the  great  storm  of  Sidmouth,  and  of 
the  conduct  of  the  excellent  Mrs.  Partington  on  that  occasion.  In 
the  winter  of  1824  there  set  in  a  great  flood  upon  that  town.  The 
tide  rose  to  an  incredible  height,  the  waves  rushed  in  upon  the 
houses,  and  everything  was  threatened  with  destruction.  In  the 
midst  of  this  sublime  and  terrible  storm,  Dame  Partington,  who 
lived  upon  the  beach,  was  seen  at  the  door  of  her  house,  with  mop 
and  pattens,  trundHng  her  mop,  squeezing  out  the  sea-water,  and 
vigorously  pushing  away  the  Atlantic  Ocean.  The  Atlantic  was 
roused,  Mrs.  Partington's  spirit  was  up  ;  but  I  need  not  tell  you 
that  the  contest  was  unequal.  The  Atlantic  Ocean  beat  Mrs.  Par- 
tington. She  was  excellent  at  a  slop  or  a  puddle  ;  but  she  should 
not  have  meddled  with  a  tempest.  Gentlemen,  be  at  your  ease.  Be 
quiet  and  steady.     You  will  beat  Mrs.  Partington. 

Then  look  at  the  gigantic  Brougham,  sworn  in  at  twelve  o'clock, 
and  before  six  has  a  bill  on  the  table  abolishing  the  abuses  of  a 
court  which  has  been  the  curse  of  the  people  of  England  for  centu- 
ries. For  twenty-five  long  years  did  Lord  Eldon  sit  in  that  court, 
surrounded  with  misery  and  sorrow  which  he  never  held  up  a  finger 
to  alleviate.  The  widow  and  the  orphan  cried  to  him  as  vainly  as 
the  town  crier  cries  when  he  offers  a  small  reward  for  a  full  purse  ; 
the  bankrupt  of  the  court  became  the  lunatic  of  the  court ;  estates 
mouldered  away,  and  mansions  fell  down  ;  but  the  fees  came  in,  and 
all  was  well.  But  in  an  instant  the  iron  mace  of  Brougham  shiv- 
ered to  atoms  this  house  of  fraud  and  of  delay  ;  and  this  is  the  man 
who  will  help  to  govern  you,  who  bottoms  his  reputation  on  doing 
good  to  you,  who  knows  that  to  reform  abuses  is  the  safest  basis  of 
fame  and  the  surest  instrument  of  power,  who  uses  the  highest  gifts 
of  reason  and  the  most  splendid  efforts  of  genius  to  rectify  those 
abuses  which  all  the  genius  and  talent  of  the  profession  have  hith- 
erto been  employed  to  justify  and  to  protect.     Look  to  Brougham, 


SYDNEY   SMITH.  305 

and  turn  you  to  that  side  where  he  waves  his  long  and  lean  finger, 
and  mark  well  that  face  which  nature  has  marked  so  forcibly  — 
which  dissolves  pensions,  turns  jobbers  into  honest  men,  scares 
away  the  plunderer  of  the  public,  and  is  a  terror  to  him  who  doeth 
evil  to  the  people. 

There  will  be  mistakes  at  first,  as  there  are  in  all  changes.  All 
young  ladies  will  imagine,  as  soon  as  this  bill  is  carried,  that  they 
will  be  instantly  married,  school-boys  believe  that  gerunds  and 
supines  will  be  abolished,  and  that  currant  tarts  must  ultimately 
come  down  in  price  ;  the  corporal  and  sergeant  are  sure  of  double 
pay  ;  bad  poets  will  expect  a  demand  for  their  epics  ;  fools  will  be 
disappointed,  as  they  always  are  ;  reasonable  men,  who  know  what 
to  expect,  will  find  that  a  very  serious  good  has  been  obtained. 

It  is  little  short  of  absolute  nonsense  to  call  a  government  good 
which  the  great  mass  of  Englishmen  would,  before  twenty  years 
were  elapsed,  if  reform  were  denied,  rise  up  and  destroy.  Of  what 
use  have  all  the  cruel  laws  been  of  Perceval,  Eldon,  and  Castle- 
reagh  to  extinguish  reform  ?  Lord  John  Russell  and  his  abettors 
would  have  been  committed  to  jail,  twenty  years  ago,  for  half  only 
of  his  present  reform  ;  and  now  relays  of  the  people  would  drag 
them  from  London  to  Edinburgh,  at  which  latter  city  we  are  told  by 
Mr.  Dundas  that  there  is  no  eagerness  for  reform.  Five  minutes 
before  Moses  struck  the  rock,  this  gentleman  would  have  said  that 
there  was  no  eagerness  for  water. 

[From  the  "  Peter  Plymley  Letters"  on  the  Catholic  Question.] 

I  FOUND  in  your  letter  the  usual  remarks  about  fire,  fagot,  and  Bloody 
Mary.  Are  you  aware,  my  dear  priest,  that  there  were  as  many  per- 
sons put  to  death  for  rehgious  opinions  under  the  mild  Elizabeth  as 
under  the  bloody  Mary  ?  The  reign  of  the  former  was,  to  be  sure,  ten 
times'as  long  ;  but  I  only  mention  the  fact  merely  to  show  you  that 
something  depends  upon  the  age  in  which  men  live,  as  well  as  on  their 
religious  opinions.  Three  hundred  years  ago  men  burned  and  hanged 
each  other  for  these  opinions.  Time  has  softened  Catholic  as  well  as 
Protestant.  They  both  required  it,  though  each  perceives  only  his 
own  improvement,  and  is  blind  tf^hat  of  the  other.  We  are  all  the 
creatures  of  circumstances.  I  know  not  a  kinder  and  better  man 
than  yourself ;  but  you,  if  you  had  lived  in  those  times,  would  cer- 
tainly have  roasted  your  Catholic  ;  and  I  promise  you,  if  the  first 


306  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

exciter  of  this  religious  mob  had  been  as  powerful  then  as  he  is 
now,  you  would  soon  have  been  elevated  to  the  mitre.  I  do  not  go 
the  length  of  saying  that  the  world  has  suffered  as  much  from  Prot- 
estant as  from  Catholic  persecution.  Far  from  it ;  but  you  should 
remember  the  Catholics  had  all  the  power  when  the  idea  first  started 
up  in  the  world  that  there  could  be  two  modes  of  faith,  and  that  it 
was  much  more  natural  they  should  attempt  to  crush  this  diversity 
of  opinion  by  great  and  cruel  efforts,  than  that  the  Protestants 
should  rage  against  those  who  differed  from  them,  when  the  very 
basis  of  their  system  was  complete  freedom  in  all  spiritual  matters. 

You  say  that  Ireland  is  a  mill-stone  about  our  necks  ;  that  it  would 
be  better  for  us  if  Ireland  were  sunk  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea ;  that 
the  Irish  are  a  nation  of  irreclaimable  savages  and  barbarians 
How  often  have  I  heard  these  sentiments  fall  from  the  plump  and 
thoughtless  squire,  and  from  the  thriving  English  shop-keeper,  who 
has  never  felt  the  rod  of  an  Orange  master  upon  his  back  !  Ireland 
a  mill-stone  about  your  neck  ?  Why  is  it  not  a  stone  of  Ajax  in 
your  hand  ?  I  agree  with  you  most  cordially,  that,  governed  as  Ire- 
land now  is,  it  would  be  a  vast  accession  of  strength  if  the  waves  of 
the  sea  were  to  rise  and  ingulf  her  to-morrow. 

Why  will  you  attribute  the  turbulence  of  our  people  to  any  cause 
but  the  right —  to  any  cause  but  your  own  scandalous  oppression  ? 
If  you  tie  your  horse  up  to  a  gate,  and  beat  him  cruelly,  is  he  vicious 
because  he  kicks  you  ?  If  you  have  plagued  and  worried  a  mastiff 
dog  for  years,  is  he  mad  because  he  flies  at  you  whenever  he  sees 
you  ?  Hatred  is  an  active,  troublesome  passion.  Depend  upon  it, 
whole  nations  have  always  some  reason  for  their  hatred.  Before 
you  refer  the  turbulence  of  the  Irish  to  indurable  defects  in  their 
character,  tell  me  if  you  have  treated  them  as  friends  and  equals .? 
Have  you  protected  their  commerce  ?  Have  you  respected  their 
religion  ?  Have  you  been  as  anxious  for  their  freedom  as  your  own  ? 
Nothing  of  all  this.  What  then  ?  Why,  you  have  confiscated  the 
territorial  surface  of  the  country  twice  over ;  you  have  massacred 
and  exported  her  inhabitants  ;  you  have  deprived  four  fifths  of  them 
of  every  civil  privilege  ;  you  have,  at  every  period,  made  her  com- 
merce and  manufactures  slavishly  subordinate  to  your  own  ;  and  yet 
the  hatred  which  the  Irish  bear  io  you  is  the  result  of  an  original 
turbulence  of  character,  and  of  a  primitive,  obdurate  wildness  ut- 
terly incapable  of  civilization  ! 


SAMUEL   TAYLOR    COLERIDGE.  307 

ON   TAXATION. 

We  can  inform  Jonathan  what  are  the  inevitable  consequences  of 
oeing  too  fond  of  glory  :  taxes  upon  every  article  which  enters  into 
the  mouth,  or  covers  the  back,  or  is  placed  under  the  foot ;  taxes 
upon  everything  which  it  is  pleasant  to  see,  hear,  feel,  smell,  or  taste  ; 
taxes  upon  warmth,  light,  and  locomotion  ;  taxes  on  everything  on 
earth,  and  the  waters  under  the  earth  —  on  everything  that  comes 
from  abroad,  or  is  grown  at  home ;  taxes  on  the  raw  material  ;  taxes 
on  every  fresh  value  that  is  added  to  it  by  the  industry  of  man  ; 
taxes  on  the  sauce  which  pampers  man's  appetite,  and  the  drug  that 
restores  him  to  health  —  on  the  ermine  which  decorates  the  judge, 
and  the  rope  which  hangs  the  criminal  ;  on  the  poor  man's  salt,  and 
the  rich  man's  spice  ;  on  the  brass  nails'  of  the  coffin,  and  the  rib- 
bons of  the  bride  :  at  bed  or  board,  couchant  or  levant,  we  must 
pay.  The  school-boy  whips  his  taxed  top  ;  the  beardless  youth 
manages  his  taxed  horse  with  a  taxed  bridle,  on  a  taxed  road  ;  and 
the  dying  Englishman,  pouring  his  medicine,  which  has  paid  seven 
per  cent.,  into  a  spoon  that  has  paid  fifteen  per  cent.,  flings  himself 
back  upon  his  chintz  bed,  which  has  paid  twenty-two  per  cent.,  and 
expires  in  the  arms  of  an  apothecary  who  has  paid  a  license  of  a 
hundred  pounds  for  the  privilege  of  putting  him  to  death.  His 
whole  property  is  then  immediately  taxed  from  two  to  ten  per  cent. 
Besides  the  probate,  large  fees  are  demanded  for  burying  him  in 
the  chancel ;  his  virtues  are  handed  down  to  posterity  on  taxed  mar- 
ble ;  and  he  is  then  gathered  to  his  fathers  —  to  be  taxed  no  more. 


SAMUEL   TAYLOR   COLERIDGE. 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge  was  born  in  Devonshire  in  1772.  He  was  the  son  of  a  poor  cu- 
rate, and  the  youngest  of  ten  children.  His  early  education  was  received  at  Christ's  Hos- 
pital, in  London.  Charles  Lamb  was  his  school-fellow,  and  has  made  a  touching  allusion 
to  him  in  one  of  the  Essays  of  Elia.  Coleridge  was  unusually  precocious,  and  was  thor- 
oughly spoiled  by  the  ill-judging  fondness  of  his  uncle,  who  took  charge  of  him  after  the 
death  of  his  father.  He  went  to  the  University  at  Cambridge,  but  quitted  it  after  two  years, 
on  account  of  debts,  it  is  supposed.  He  enlisted  as  a  common  soldier,  but  was  discharged, 
after  a  few  months'  service,  on  the  interposition  of  his  friends.  He  became  an  intimate 
friend  of  Southey,  and  the  two  poets  subsequently  married  sisters.  It  does  not  appear  that 
Coleridge  had  either  property,  employment,  or  any  rational  prospect  of  eaming  a  living  at 
the  time  of  his  marriage  ;  but  his  early  years  were  his  best  and  most  productive  ones.  The 
Ancient  Mariner,  the  Hymn  in  the  Vale  of  Chamouni,  the  first  part  of  Christabel,  and 
other  minor  poems,  displaying  the  highest  qualities  of  imagination,  were  written  in  his 


308  HAND-BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

twenty-fifth  year.  To  quiet  the  pangs  of  his  diseased  nerves,  he  commenced  the  use  of 
opium  ;  and  the  habit,  once  established,  was  never  broken.  In  the  quantity  of  this  terriblt 
drug  which  he  came  to  consume  he  left  even  De  Quincey  far  behind  ;  and  the  effect  of  this 
slavery  to  a  morbid  appetite  upon  his  health,  his  intellect,  and  his  moral  character  made 
the  record  of  all  his  subsequent  life  pitiable.  Vast  projects  were  conceived,  as  baseless  as 
the  domes  of  Kubla  Khan  ;  great  quartos  were  planned,  of  which  not  a  line  was  written 
but  the  title  page.  His  wife  and  children  left  him  in  despair,  and  took  refuge  with  Southey. 
All  that  he  earned  was  insufficient  for  his  wants,  and  his  begging  letters  show  too  well  the 
depth  of  his  abasement.  He  found  a  home  at  last  with  a  certain  Mr.  Gillman,  who  was 
proud  of  his  famous  guest ;  and  there  he  lived  for  eighteen  years,  until  his  death  in  1834. 

Coleridge  had,  by  nature,  all  the  great  qualities  which  constitute  a  poet.  We  cannot  pre- 
dict the  future  growth  of  the  poetic  art ;  but  it  is  difficult  to  imagine  a  state  of  society  in 
which  his  best  works  will  not  be  read  with  pleasure,  if  not  with  ungrudging  admiration. 
The  splendor  of  his  imagery,  the  force  and  the  subtilty  of  thought,  and  the  natural  melody 
of  his  versa  have  placed  him,  by  common  consent,  among  the  few  immortal  names.  We 
cannot  forget,  as  we  wish  we  could,  the  selfish  indulgence,  the  aimless  indolence,  the  habit- 
ual untruth,  and  the  unspeakable  degradation  of  his  later  years  ;  and  we  must  lament  that, 
with  a  mind  so  ill  balanced,  his  very  genius  should  have  taken  the  form  of  a  "  splendid  dis- 
ease." His  poems  were  collected  by  his  son  and  daughter,  and  are  published  in  three  vol- 
umes. His  prose  essays,  published  in  The  Friend,  are  finely  written,  and  are  as  clear  in 
meaning  as  metaphysical  treatises  in  general.  A  very  striking  description  of  him  occurs  in 
Carlyle's  Life  of  Stirling,  one  of  the  most  beautiful  and  characteristic  works  of  the  great 
essaxW. 

HYMN   BEFORE   SUNRISE   IN   THE   VALE   OF   CHAMOUNL 

Hast  thou  a  charm  to  stay  the  morning  star 

In  his  steep  course  ?    So  long  he  seems  to  pause 

On  thy  bald,  awful  head,  O,  sovran  Blanc  ! 

The  Arve  and  Arveiron  at  thy  base 

Rave  ceaselessly  ;  but  thou,  most  awful  form, 

Risest  from  forth  thy  silent  sea  of  pines, 

How  silently  !     Around  thee  and  above, 

Deep  is  the  air,  and  dark,  substantial,  black. 

An  ebon  mass  ;  methinks  thou  piercest  it 

As  with  a  wedge.     But  when  I  look  again. 

It  is  thine  own  calm  home,  thy  crystal  shrine, 

Thy  habitation  from  eternity. 

O,  dread  and  silent  mount,  I  gazed  upon  thee, 

Till  thou,  still  present  to  the  bodily  sense, 

Didst  vanish  from  my  thought.     Entranced  in  prayer, 

I  worshipped  the  Invisible  alone. 

Yet,  like  some  sweet,  beguiling  melody, — 
So  sweet  we  know  not  we  are  listening  to  it,  — 
Thou,  the  mean  while,  wast  blending  with  my  thought, 
Yea,  with  my  life  and  life's  own  secret  joy, 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE.  3^9 

Till  the  dilating  soul,  enrapt,  transfused 
Into  the  mighty  vision  passing  —  there, 
As  in  her  natural  form,  swelled  vast  to  heaven. 

Awake,  my  soul !     Not  only  passive  praise 
Thou  owest  —  not  alone  these  swelHng  tears, 
Mute  thanks,  and  secret  ecstasy.     Awake, 
Voice  of  sweet  song  !  awake,  my  heart,  awake  ! 
Green  vales  and  icy  cliffs,  all  join  my  hymn. 

Thou  first  and  chief,  sole  sovran  of  the  vale  — 
O,  struggling  with  the  darkness  all  the  night, 
And  visited  all  night  by  troops  of  stars, 
Or  when  they  climb  the  sky  or  when  they  sink, 
Companion  of  the  morning  star  at  dawn. 
Thyself  earth's  rosy  star,  and  of  the  dawn 
Co-herald,  wake,  O,  wake,  and  utter  praise  ! 
Who  sank  thy  sunless  pillars  deep  in  earth  .^ 
Who  filled  thy  countenance  with  rosy  light  ? 
Who  made  thee  parent  of  perpetual  streams  ? 

And  you,  ye  five  wild  torrents,  fiercely  glad. 

Who  called  you  forth  from  night  and  utter  death. 

From  dark  and  icy  caverns  called  you  forth, 

Down  those  precipitous,  black,  jagged  rocks. 

Forever  shattered,  and  the  same  forever  ? 

Who  gave  you  your  invulnerable  life. 

Your  strength,  your  speed,  your  fury,  and  your  joy, 

Unceasing  thunder,  and  eternal  foam  ? 

And  who  commanded,  —  and  the  silence  came,  — 

Here  let  the  billows  stiffen,  and  have  rest  ? 

Ye  icefalls,  ye  that  from  the  mountain's  brow 
Adown  enormous  ravines  slope  amain  — 
Torrents,  methinks,  that  heard  a  mighty  voice. 
And  stopped  at  once  amid  their  maddest  plunge  ; 
Motionless  torrents,  silent  cataracts. 
Who  made  you  glorious  as  the  gates  of  heaven 
Beneath  the  keen,  full  moon  ?     Who  bade  the  sun 
Clothe  you  with  rainbows  ?     Who,  with  living  flowers 
Of  loveliest  blue,  spread  garlands  at  your  feet  ? 
God  !  let  the  torrents,  like  a  shout  of  nations, 


310  HAND-BOOK    OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

Answer,  and  let  the  ice-plains  echo,  God  ! 
God  !  sing  ye  meadow  streams  with  gladsome  voice  ; 
Ye  pine  groves,  with  your  soft  and  soul-like  sounds  ; 
And  they,  too,  have  a  voice,  yon  piles  of  snow. 
And  in  their  perilous  fall  shall  thunder,  God  ! 

Ye  living  flowers,  that  skirt  the  eternal  frost ; 
Ye  wild  goats,  sporting  round  the  eagle's  nest ; 
Ye  eagles,  playmates  of  the  mountain  storm  ; 
Ye  lightnings,  the  dread  arrows  of  the  clouds  ; 
Ye  signs  and  wonders  of  the  element. 
Utter  forth,  God,  and  fill  the  hills  with  praise  ! 

Once  more,  hoar  mount,  with  thy  sky-pointing  peaks, 

Oft  from  whose  feet  the  avalanche,  unheard. 

Shoots  downward,  glittering  through  the  pure  serene, 

Into  the  depth  of  clouds  that  veil  thy  breast  — 

Thou  too,  again,  stupendous  mountain,  thou 

That,  as  I  raise  my  head,  a  while  bowed  low 

In  adoration,  upward  from  thy  base. 

Slow  travelling,  with  dim  eyes  s;iffused  with  tears, 

Solemnly  seemest,  like  a  vapory  cloud, 

To  rise  before  me  — rise,  O,  ever  rise  ; 

Rise  like  a  cloud  of  incense  from  the  earth. 

Thou  kingly  spirit  throned  among  the  hills, 

Thou  dread  ambassador  from  earth  to  heaven, 

Great  hierarch,  tell  thou  the  silent  sky, 

And  tell  the  stars,  and  tell  yon  rising  sun. 

Earth,  with  her  thousand  voices,  praises  God  ! 


THE   RIME   OF   THE   ANCIENT   MARINER. 

The  guests  are  met,  the  feast  is  set  — 
PART   I.  Mayst  hear  the  merry  din. " 

It  is  an  Ancient  Mariner,  He  holds  him  with  his  skinny  hand : 

And  he  stoppeth  one  of  three  :  « '  There  was  a  ship  —  "  quoth  he. 

"  By  thy  long,  gray  beard,  and  thy  glitter-  "  Hold  off !  unhand  me,  gray-beard  loon 

mg  eye,  Eftsoons  his  hand  dropped  he. 
Now  wherefore  stopp'st  thou  me  ? 

He  holds  him  with  his  glittering  eye  ; 

**  The     Bridegroom's  doors    Are    opened  The  Wedding-Guest  stood  still, 

wide,  And  listens  like  a  three  years'  child  — 

And  I  am  next  of  kin  :  The  Mariner  hath  his  will. 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 


311 


The  Wedding-Guest  sat  on  a  stone  ; 

He  cannot  choose  but  hear  ; 
And  thus  spake  on  that  ancient  man, 

The  bright-eyed  Mariner  :  — 

"  I'he  ship  was  cheered,  the  harbor  cleared, 

Merrily  did  we  drop 
Below  the  kirk,  below  the  hill, 

Below  the  light-house  top. 

"  The  Sun  came  up  upon  the  left. 

Out  of  the  sea  came  he  ; 
And  he  shone  bright,  and  on  the  right 

Went  down  into  the  sea. 

"  Higher  and  higher  every  day. 

Till  over  the  mast  at  noon  —  " 
The  Wedding-Guest  here  beat  his  breast, 

For  he  heard  the  loud  bassoon. 

The  bride  hath  paced  into  the  hall ; 

Red  as  a  rose  is  she  ; 
Nodding  their  heads,  before  her  go 

The  merry  minstrelsy. 

The  Wedding-Guest  he  beat  his  breast ; 

Yet  he  cannot  choose  but  hear  ; 
And  thus  spake  on  that  ancient  man, 

The  bright-eyed  Mariner :  — 

"And  now  the  storm-blast  came,  and  he 

Was  tyrannous  and  strong  ; 
He  struck  with  his  o'ertaking  wings. 

And  chased  us  south  along. 

"With  s' oping  masts  and  dipping  prow. 
As  who  pursued  with  yell  and  blow 
Still  treads  the  shadow  of  his  foe. 

And  forward  bends  his  head. 
The  ship  drove  fast,  loud  roared  the  blast, 

And  southward  aye  we  fled. 

"And  now  there  came  both  mist  and  snow, 

And  it  grew  wondrous  cold  ; 
And  ice,  mast  high,  came  floating  by, 

As  green  as  emerald  ;  — 

"  And  through  the  drifts  the  snowy  clifts 

Did  send  a  dismal  sheen  ; 
Nor  shapes  of  men  nor  beasts  we  ken  — 

The  ice  was  all  between. 

"'J "he  ice  was  here,  the  ice  was  there. 

The  ice  was  all  around  ; 
It  cracked,   and  growled,  and  roared,  and 
howled  — 

Like  noises  in  a  swound  I 


"At  length  did  cross  an  albatross  : 

Thorough  the  fog  it  came  ; 
As  if  it  had  been  a  Christian  soul. 

We  hailed  it  in  God's  name. 

"  It  ate  the  food  it  had  never  eat, 

And  round  and  round  it  flew  ; 
The  ice  did  split  with  a  thunder  fit ; 

The  helmsman  steered  us  through. 

"And  a  good  south  wind  sprung  up  behind ; 

The  albatross  did  follow, 
And  every  day,  for  food  or  play. 

Came  to  the  mariners'  hollo. 

"  In  mistspr  cloud,  on  mast  or  shroud. 

It  perched  for  vespers  nine, 
Whiles    all    the    night,    through  fog-smoke 
white. 

Glimmered  the  white  moonshine." 

"God  save  thee.  Ancient  Mariner, 
From  the  fiends  that  plague  thee  thus  ! 

Why  look'st  thou  so  ?  "   "  With  my  cro»s-bow 
I  shot  the  albatross. " 


PART   IL 

' '  The  Sun  now  rose  upon  the  right, 

Out  of  the  sea  came  he, 
Still  hid  in  mist,  and  on  the  left 

Went  down  into  the  sea ;  — 

"And  the  good  south  wind  still  blew  behind, 

But  no  sweet  bird  did  follow, 
Nor  any  day,  for  food  or  play, 

Came  to  the  mariners'  hollo  ;  — 

"And  I  had  done  a  helish  thing, 

And  it  would  work  'em  woe  ; 
For  all  averred  I  had  killed  the  bird 

That  made  the  breeze  to  blow. 
'Ah,  wretch  ! '  said  they,  'the  bird  to  slay, 

That  made  the  breeze  to  blow  1 ' 

"  Nor  dim  nor  red,  like  God's  own  head, 

The  glorious  Sun  uprist : 
Then  all  averred  I  had  killed  the  bird 

That  brought  the  fog  and  mist. 
'  'Twas  right,'  said  they,  '  such  birds  to  slay 

That  bring  the  fog  and  mist. ' 

"The  fair  breeze  blew,  the  white  foam  flew, 

The  furrow  followed  free  ; 
We  were  the  first  that  ever  burst 

Into  that  silent  sea. 


312 


HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 


''  Down  dropt  the  breeze,  the  sails  dropt 
down : 

'Twas  sad  as  sad  could  be  ; 
And  we  did  speak  on'.y  to  break 

The  silence  of  the  sea. 

'■  All  in  a  hot  and  copper  sky 

The  bloody  sun,  at  noon, 
Right  up  above  the  mast  did  stand. 

No  bigger  than  the  inoon. 

"  Day  after  day,  day  after  day. 
We  stuck,  nor  breath  nor  motion ; 

As  idle  as  a  painted  ship 
Upon  a  painted  ocean. 

"  Water,  water,  everj'where. 

And  all  the  boards  did  shrink  ; 
Water,  water,  everywhere. 

Nor  any  drop  to  drink. 

"  The  very  deep  did  rot.     O  Christ  ! 

That  ever  this  should  be  ! 
Yea,  slimy  things  did  crawl  with  legs 

Upon  the  slimy  sea. 

"  About,  about,  in  reel  and  rout. 
The  death-fires  danced  at  night ; 

The  water,  like  a  witch's  oils. 
Burnt  green,  and  blue,  and  white. 

"  And  some  in  dreams  assured  were 
Of  the  spirit  that  plagued  us  so  ; 

Nine  fathom  deep  he  had  followed  us 
From  the  land  of  mist  and  snow  ;  — 

"And  every  tongue,  through  utter  drought, 

Was  withered  at  the  root ; 
We  could  not  speak  no  more  than  if 

We  had  been  choked  with  soot. 

"Ah,  wel-a-day  !  what  evil  looks 

Had  I  from  o!d  and  young  ! 
Instead  of  the  cross,  the  albatross 

About  my  neck  was  hung." 

PART   III.       . 

"  So  passed  a  weary  time.     Each  throat 
Was  parched,  and  glazed  each  eye, 

A  weary  time  !  a  weary  time  ! 
How  glazed  each  weary  eye. 

When,  looking  westward,  I  beheld 
A  something  in  the  sky. 

*'  At  first  it  seemed  a  little  speck, 
And  then  it  seemed  a  mist ; 


It  moved  and  moved,  and  took  at  la.st 
A  certain  shape,  I  wist  — 

"  A  speck,  a  mist,  a  shape,  I  wist, 
And  still  it  neared  and  n  eared  ; 

And,  as  if  it  dodged  a  water  sprite. 
It  plunged,  and  tacked,  and  veered. 

"With    throat    unslaked,    with    black    lips 
baked, 

We  could  nor  laugh  nor  wail  ; 
Through  utter  drought,  all  dumb  we  stood  i 
I  bit  my  arm,  and  sucked  the  blood. 

And  cried,  '  A  sail !  a  sail ! ' 

"With    throat    unslaked,    with    black    lips 
baked, 

Agape  they  heard  me  call ; 
Gramercy  !  they  for  joy  did  grin. 
And  all  at  once  their  breath  drew  in. 

As  they  were  drinking  all. 

"  *  See  !  see  ! '  I  cried,  *  she  tacks  no  more  ; 

Hither,  to  work  us  weal. 
Without  a  breeze,  without  a  tide, 

She  steadies  with  upright  keel ! ' 

"The  western  wave  was  all  a-flame. 

The  day  was  well  nigh  done, 
Almost  upon  the  western  wave 

Rested  the  broad,  bright  sun  ; 
When  that  strange  shape  drove  suddenly 

Betwixt  us  and  the  sun. 

"And  straight   the   sun  was    flecked  with 
bars,  — 

Heaven's  Mother  send  us  grace  !  — 
As  if  through  a  dungeon-grate  he  peered 

With  broad  and  burning  face. 

"  'Alas  ! '  thought  I,  and  my  heart  beat  loud, 

'  How  fast  she  nears  and  nears  ! 
Are  those  har  sails  that  glance  in  the  sun 

Like  restless  gossamers? 

"  '  Are  those  her  ribs  through  which  the  sun 

Did  peer  as  through  a  grate  ? 
Is  that  a  Death  ?  and  are  there  two  ? 

Is  Death  that  woman's  mate  ? ' 

"Her  lips  were  red,  her  looks  were  free, 

Her  locks  were  yellow  as  go'd : 
Her  skin  was  as  white  as  leprosy. 
The  Night-mare,  Life-in-Death  was  she 

Who  thicks  man's  blood  with  cold. 


SAMUEL   TAYLOR   COLERIDGE. 


313 


"The  naked  hulk  alongside  came, 
And  the  twain  were  playing  dice  ; 

'The  game  is  done  !  I've  won,  I've  won  ! 
Quoth  she,  and  whistles  thrice. 


"The  many  men,  so  beautiful ! 

And  they  all  dead  did  lie  ! 
And  a  thousand  thousand  slimy  things 

Lived  on  —  and  so  did  I. 


"  The  sun's  rim  dips ;  the  stars  rush  out ; 

At  one  stride  comes  the  dark ; 
With  far-heard  whisper,  o'er  the  sea 

Off  shot  the  spectre-bark. 

"  We  listened,  and  looked  sideways  up  ! 
Fear  at  my  heart,  as  at  a  cup, 

My  life-blood  seemed  to  sip  ! 
The  stars  were  dim,  and  thick  the  night, 
The  steersman's  face  by  his  lamp  gleamed 
white ; 

From  the  sails  the  dew  did  drip,  — 
Till  clomb  above  the  eastern  bar 
The  horned  moon,  with  one  bright  star 

Within  the  nether  tip. 

"One  after  one,  by  the  star-dogged  moon, 

Too  quick  for  a  groan  or  sigh 
Each  turned  his  face  with  a  ghastly  pang. 

And  cursed  me  with  his  eye. 


' '  I  looked  upon  the  rotting  sea, 

And  drew  my  eyes  away  ; 
I  looked  upon  the  rotting  deck. 

And  there  the  dead  men  lay. 

"  I  looked  to  heaven,  and  tried  to  pray  ; 

But  or  ever  a  prayer  had  gusht, 
A  wicked  whisper  came,  and  made 

My  heart  as  dry  as  dust. 

"  I  closed  my  lids  and  kept  them  close, 

Till  the  balls  like  pulses  beat ; 
For  the  sky  and  the  sea,  and  the  sea  and  the 

sky 
Lay  like  a  load  on  my  weary  eye. 

And  the  dead  were  at  my  feet. 

"  The  cold  sweat  melted  from  their  limbs, 

Nor  rot  nor  reek  did  they  : 
The  look  with  which  they  looked  on  me, 

Had  never  passed  away. 


"  Four  times  fi.'ty  living  men, 
With  never  a  sigh  or  groan. 

With  heavy  thump,  a  lifeless  lump 
They  dropped  down  one  by  one. 

* '  Their  souls  did  from  their  bodies  fly. 

They  fled  to  bliss  or  woe  ; 
And  every  soul  it  passed  me  by, 

Like  the  whiz  of  my  cross-bow." 


"An  orphan's  curse  would  drag  to  hell 

A  spirit  from  on  high  : 
But  oh  !  more  horrible  than  that 

Is  the  curse  in  a  dead  man's  eye  ! 
Seven  days,  seven  niglits  I  saw  that  curse; 

And  yet  I  could  not  die. 

"The  moving  moon  went  up  the  sky. 

And  nowhere  did  abide: 
Softly  she  was  going  up. 

And  a  star  or  two  beside  — 


PART   IV. 

"  I  fear  thee.  Ancient  Mariner  ! 

I  fear  thy  skinny  hand  ; 
And  thou  art  long,  and  lank,  and  brown, 

As  is  the  ribbed  sea-sand. 

"  I  fear  thee  and  thy  glittering  eye. 
And  thy  skinny  hand  so  brown." 

"  Fear  not,  fear  not,  thou  Wedding-Guest 
This  body  dropt  not  down, 

"Alone,  alone,  all,  all  alone. 

Alone  on  the  wide,  wide  sea ; 
And  never  a  saint  took  pity  on 

My  soul  in  agony 


"Her  beams  bemocked  the  sultry  main 

Like  April  hoar-frost  spread  ; 
But  where  the  ship's  huge  shadow  lay, 
The  charmed  water  burnt  alway 
A  still  and  awful  red. 

"  Beyond  the  shadow  of  the  ship 
I  watched  the  water  snakes  : 

They  moved  in  tracks  of  shining  white  ; 

And  when  they  reared,  the  elfish  light 
Fell  off  in  hoary  flakes. 

"  Within  the  shadow  of  the  ship 

I  watched  their  rich  attire  : 
Blue,  glossy  green,  and  velvet  black 
They  coiled  and  swam  ;  and  every  track 

Was  a  flash  of  golden  fire. 


3H 


HAND-BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 


"0  happy  living  things  !  no  tongue 
Their  beauty  might  declare  ; 

A  spring  of  love  gushed  from  my  heart. 
And  I  blessed  them  unaware  ! 

Sure  my  kind  saint  took  pity  on  me, 
And  I  blessed  them  unaware. 

"  The  self-same  moment  I  could  pray ; 

And  from  my  neck  so  free 
The  albatross  fell  off,  and  sank 

Like  lead  into  the  sea." 


PART   V. 

"  O  sleep,  it  is  a  gentle  thing, 

Beloved  from  pole  to  pole  ! 
To  Mary  Queen  the  praise  be  given, 
She  sent  the  gentle  sleep  from  Heaven 

That  slid  into  my  soul. 

*  The  silly  buckets  on  the  deck 

That  had  so  long  remained, 
I  dreamt  that  they  were  filled  with  dew. 

And  when  I  awoke  it  rained. 

"  My  lips  were  wet,  my  throat  was  cold, 

My  garments  all  were  dank: 
Sure  I  had  drunken  in  my  dreams, 

And  still  my  body  drank. 

"  I  moved  and  could  not  feel  my  limbs  ; 

I  was  so  light,  almost 
I  thought  that  I  had  died  in  sleep. 

And  was  a  blessed  ghost. 

"And  soon  I  heard  a  roaring  wind, 

It  did  not  come  anear  ; 
But  with  its  sound  it  shook  the  sails 

That  were  so  thin  and  sere. 

"The  upper  air  burst  into  life, 
And  a  hundred  fire-flags  sheen  ; 

To  and  fro  they  were  hurried  about ; 

And  to  and  fro,  and  in  and  out. 
The  wan  stars  danced  between. 

"  And  the  coming  wind  did  roar  more  7oud  • 
And  the  sails  did  sigh  like  sedge  : 

And  the  rain  poured  down  from  one  black 
cloud. 
The  moon  was  at  its  edge. 

"The  thick  black  cloud  was  cleft,  and  still 

The  moon  was  at  its  side : 
Like  waters  shot  from  some  high  crag, 
The  lightning  fell  with  never  a  jag, 

A  river  steep  and  wide. 


"  The  loud  wind  never  reached  the  ship. 

Yet  now  the  ship  moved  on  ! 
Beneath  the  lightning  and  the  moon. 

The  dead  men  gave  a  groan. 

"  They  groaned,  they  stirred,  they  all  uprose. 
Nor  spake,  nor  moved  their  eyes : 

It  had  been  strange,  e'en  in  a  dream. 
To  have  seen  those  dead  men  rise. 

"  The  helmsman  steered,  the  ship  moved  on ; 

Yet  never  a  breeze  up  blew  ; 
The  mariners  all  'gan  work  the  ropes, 

Where  they  were  wont  to  do : 
They  raised  tlieir  limbs  like  lifeless  tools  — 

We  were  a  ghastly  crew. 

"  The  body  of  my  brother's  son 

Stood  by  me  knee  to  knee  : 
The  body  and  I  pulled  at  one  rope, 

But  he  said  nought  to  me. " 

"  I  fear  thee,  Ancient  Mariner  !  " 

"Be  calm,  thou  Wedding-Guest ! 
'Twas  not  those  souls,  that  fled  in  pain, 
Which  to  their  corses  came  again, 
But  a  troop  of  spirits  blest : 

"  For  when  it   dawned,  they  dropped  their 
arms, 
And  clustered  round  the  mast : 
Sweet  sounds   rose  slowly  through  their 
mouths, 
And  from  their  bodies  passed. 

"Around,  around,  flew  each  sweet  sound, 

Then  darted  to  the  sun : 
Slowly  the  sounds  came  back  again. 

Now  mixed,  now  one  by  one. 

"  Sometimes  a-dropping  from  the  sky 

I  heard  the  skylark  sing ; 
Sometimes  all  little  birds  that  are, 
How  they  seemed  to  fill  the  sea  and  air 

With  their  sweet  jargoning  ! 

"  And  now  'twas  like  all  instruments, 

Now  like  a  lonely  flute  ; 
And  now  it  is  an  angel's  song 

That  makes  the  heavens  be  mute. 

"  It  ceased  :  yet  still  the  sai's  made  on 

A  pleasant  noise  till  noon, 
A  noise  like  of  a  hidden  brook 

In  the  leafy  month  of  June, 
That  to  the  sleeping  woods  all  night 

Singeth  a  quiet  tune. 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 


315 


"  Till  noon  we  quietly  sailed  on, 
Yet  never  a  breeze  did  breathe : 

Slowly  and  smoothly  went  the  ship, 
Moved  onward  from  beneath. 

"  Under  the  keel  nine  fathom  deep, 
From  the  land  of  mist  and  snow 

The  spirit  slid,  and  it  was  he 
That  made  the  ship  to  go. 

The  sails  at  noon  left  off  their  tune; 
And  the  ship  stood  still  also. 

"  The  sun,  right  up  above  the  mas 

Had  fixed  her  to  the  ocean  : 
But  in  a  minute  she  'gan  stir 

With  a  short,  uneasy  motion  — 
Backwards  and  forwards  half  her  length, 

With  a  short,  uneasy  motion. 

"  Then,  like  a  pawing  horse  let  go. 

She  made  a  sudden  bound  ; 
It  flung  the  blood  into  my  head, 

And  I  fell  down  in  a  swound. 


His  great  bright  eye  most  silently 
Up  to  the  moon  is  cast  — 

"  '  If  he  may  know  which  way  to  go, 
For  she  guides  him  smooth  or  grim. 

See,  brother,  see  !  how  graciously 
She  looketh  down  on  him. ' 


FIRST   VOICE. 

"  '  But  why  drives  on  that  ship  so  fast 
Without  or  wave  or  wind  ? ' 


SECOND   VOICE. 

'  The  air  is  cut  away  before. 
And  closes  from  behind. 


"  '  Fly,  brother,  fly  !  more  high,  more  high  ! 

Or  we  shall  be  belated : 
For  slow  and  slow  that  ship  will  go, 

When  the  Mariner's  trace  is  abated.' 


' '  How  long  in  that  same  fit  I  lay, 

I  have  not  to  declare  : 
But  ere  my  living  life  returned, 
I  heard,  and  in  my  soul  discerned 

Two  voices  in  the  air. 

"  '  Is  it  he  ? '  quoth  one,  '  is  this  the  man  ? 

By  him  who  died  on  cross. 
With  his  cruel  bow  he  laid  full  low 

The  harmless  albatross. 

"  '  The  spirit  who  bideth  by  himself 

In  the  land  of  mist  and  snow. 
He  loved  the  bird  that  loved  the  man 

Who  shot  him  with  his  bow.'  " 


"  I  wolce,  and  we  were  sailing  on 

As  in  a  gentle  weather  : 
'Twas  night,  calm  night,  the  moon  was  high ; 

The  dead  men  stood  together. 

"  All  stood  together  on  the  deck. 

For  a  charnel-dungeon  fitter ; 
All  fixed  on  me  their  stony  eyes 

That  in  the  moon  did  glitter. 

•'The  pang,  the  curse,  with  which  they  died, 

Had  never  passed  away  ; 
I  could  not  draw  my  eyes  from  theirs. 

Nor  turn  them  up  to  pray. 


"  The  other  was  a  softer  voice. 

As  soft  as  honey  dew : 
Quoth  he,  '  The  man  hath  penance  done, 

And  penance  more  will  do. ' " 


•'And  now  this  spell  was  snapped :  once  more 

I  viewed  the  ocean  green. 
And  looked  far  forth,  yet  little  saw 

Of  what  had  else  been  seen  ; 


PART   VI. 

FIRST   VOICE. 

"  '  But  tell  me,  tell  me  !  speak  again. 
Thy  soft  response  renewing  — 

What  makes  that  ship  drive  on  so  fast? 
What  is  the  ocean  doing  ?  ' 

SECOND   VOICE. 

"  '  Still  as  a  slave  before  his  lord, 
The  ocean  hath  no  blast : 


"  Like  one,  that  on  a  lonesome  road 

Doth  walk  in  fear  and  dread. 
And  having  once  turned  round,  walks  on, 

And  turns  no  more  his  head  ; 
Because  he  knows  a  frightful  fiend 

Doth  c'.ose  behind  him  tread. 

"But  soon  thsre  breathed  a  wind  on  me, 
Nor  sound  nor  motion  made  : 

Its  path  was  not  upon  the  sea 
In  ripple  or  in  shade. 


3i6 


HAND-BOOK  OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 


"  It  raised  my  hair,  it  fanned  my  cheek, 
Like  a  meadow-gale  of  spring ; 

It  mingled  strangely  with  my  fears, 
Yet  it  felt  like  a  welcoming. 


"  But  soon  I  heard  the  dash  of  oars, 
I  heard  the  Pilot's  cheer : 

My  head  was  turned  perforce  away. 
And  I  saw  a  boat  appear. 


"  Swiftly,  swiftly  flew  the  ship. 

Yet  she  sailed  softly  too : 
Sweetly,  sweetly  blew  the  breeze, 

On  me  alone  it  blew. 

"  O  dream  of  joy  !  is  this  indeed 

The  light-house  top  I  see  ? 
Is  this  the  hill  ?     Is  this  the  kirk? 

Is  this  mine  own  countree  ? 

"  We  drifted  o'er  the  harbor-bar, 

And  I  with  sobs  did  pray, 
'  O  let  me  be  awake,  my  God ! 

Or  let  me  sleep  alway. ' 

"  The  harbor-bay  was  clear  as  glass. 

So  smoothly  it  was  strewn  '• 
And  on  th2  bay  the  moonlight  lay. 

And  the  shadow  of  the  moon. 

"The  rock  shone  bright,  the  kirk  no  less 

That  stands  above  the  rock : 
The  moonlight  steeped  in  silentness 

The  steady  weathercock. 

"  And  the  bay  was  white  with  silent  light, 

Till  rising  from  the  same 
Full  many  shapes,  that  shadows  were, 

In  crimson  colors  came. 

"A  little  distance  from  the  prow 
Those  crimson  shadows  were : 

I  turned  my  eyes  upon  the  deck  — 
Oh,  Christ !  what  saw  I  there  I 

"  Each  corse  lay  flat,  lifeless  and  flat ; 

And,  by  the  holy  rood  ! 
A  man  all  light,  a  seraph-man. 

On  every  corse  there  stood. 

"  This  seraph-band,  each  waved  his  hand ; 

It  was  a  heavenly  sight : 
They  stood  as  signals  to  the  land. 

Each  one  a  lovely  light. 


"The  Pilot,  and  the  Pilot's  boy, 
I  heard  them  coming  fast : 

Dear  Lord  in  heaven  I  it  was  a  joy 
The  dead  men  could  not  blast. 


"  I  saw  a  third  —  I  heard  his  voic2 : 

It  is  the  Hermit  good  ! 
He  singeth  loud  his  godly  hymns 

That  he  makes  in  the  wood. 
He'll  shrieve  my  soul,  he'll  wash  away 

The  albatross's  blooi" 


PART   VII. 

"This  Hermit  good  lives  in  that  wood 
Which  slopes  down  to  the  sea. 

How  loudly  his  sweet  voice  he  rears  ! 

He  loves  to  talk  with  marineres 
That  come  from  a  far  countree. 


"  He  kneels  at  mom,  and  noon,  and  eve  ; 

He  hath  a  cushion  plump  : 
It  is  the  moss  that  wholly  hides 

The  rotted  old  oak-stump. 

"The  skiff-boat  neared  ;  I  heard  thsm  talk, 

'  Why,  this  is  strange,  I  trow  ! 
Where  are  those  lights  so  many  and  fair 

That  signal  made  but  now  ? ' 

"  '  Strange,  by  my  faith  ! '  the  hermit  said  ; 

'  And  they  answered  not  our  cheer. 
The  planks  look  warped,  and  see  those  sails 

How  tbin  they  are  and  sere  ! 
I  never  saw  aught  like  to  them. 

Unless  perchance  it  were 

"  Brown  skeletons  of  leaves  that  lag 

My  forest  brook  along. 
When  the  ivy-tod  is  heavy  with  snow. 
And  the  owlet  whoops  to  the  wolf  below 

That  eats  the  she-wolf's  young.' 


"  This  seraph-band,  each  waved  his  hand 

No  voice  did  they  impart  — 
No  voice  ;  but  oh  !  the  silence  sank 

Like  music  on  my  heart 


'  'Dear  Lord  !  it  has  a  fiendish  look 
(The  Pilot  made  reply) ; 
am  a-feared. '     '  Push  on,  push  on  ! ' 
Said  the  Hermit  cheerily. 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR   COLERIDGE. 


317 


"Tlie  boat  came  closer  to  the  ship, 

But  I  nor  spake  nor  stirred ; 
The  boat  came  close  beneath  the  ship, 

And  straight  a  sound  was  heard. 

"  Under  the  water  it  rumbled  on, 

Still  louder  and  more  dread : 
It  reached  the  ship,  it  split  the  bay: 

The  ship  went  down  like  le^. 

"  Stunned  by  that  loud  and  dreadful  sound, 

Which  sky  and  ocean  smote, 
Like  one  that  hath  been  seven  days  drowned 

My  body  lay  afloat : 
But,  swift  as  dreams,  myself  I  found 

Within  the  Pilot's  boat. 

"  Upon  the  whirl,  where  sank  the  ship, 
The  boat  spun  round  and  round. 

And  all  was  still,  save  that  the  hill 
Was  telling  of  the  sound. 

"I  moved  my  lips:  the  Pilot  shrieked, 

And  fell  down  in  a  fit. 
The  holy  Hermit  raised  his  eyes 

And  prayed  where  he  did  sit. 

"  I  took  the  onrs  :  the  Pilot's  boy. 

Who  now  c\o'A\  crazy  go. 
Laughed  loud  and  long,  and  all  the  while 

His  eyes  went  to  and  fro, 
'  Ha,  ha  ! '  quoth  he  ;  '  full  plain  I  see, 

The  devil  knows  how  to  row. ' 

'  And  now  all  in  my  own  countree 

I  stood  on  the  firm  land  ! 
The  Hermit  stepped  forth  from  the  boat 

And  scarcely  he  could  stand. 

"  '  O,  shrieve  me,  shrieve  me,  holy  man  I ' 

The  Hermit  crossed  his  brow. 
'  Say  quick, '  quoth  he,  '  I  bid  thee  say 

What  manner  of  man  art  thou  ?  ' 

"  Forthwith  this  frame  of  mind  was  wrenched 

With  a  woful  agony, 
Which  forced  me  to  begin  my  tale, 

And  then  it  left  me  free. 

"  Since  then,  at  an  uncertain  hour 
That  agony  returns ; 


And  till  my  ghastly  tale  is  told 
This  iieart  withm  me  burns. 

"  I  pass,  like  night,  from  land  to  land  ; 

I  have  strange  power  of  speech  : 
The  moment  that  his  face  I  see 
I  know  the  man  that  must  hear  me  ; 

To  him  my  tale  I  teach. 

"  What  loud  uproar  bursts  from  that  door  1 
The  wedding-guests  are  there  ; 

But  in  the  garden-bower  the  bride 
And  bride-maids  singing  are  ; 

And  hark  the  little  vesper  bell. 
Which  biddeth  me  to  prayer. 

"  O  Wedding-Guest  !  this  soul  hath  been 

Alone  on  a  wide,  wide  sea  : 
So  lonely  'twas,  that  God  himself 

Scarce  seem6d  there  to  be. 

"  O  sweeter  than  the  marriage-feast, 

'Tis  sweeter  far  to  me 
To  walk  together  to  the  kirk, 

With  a  goodly  company  ;  — 

"To  walk  togetherto  the  kirk, 

And  all  together  pray. 
While  each  to  his  great  Father  bends, 
Old  men,  and  babes,  and  loving  friends, 

And  youths,  and  maidens  gay. 

"  Farewell,  farewell ;  but  this  I  tell 
To  thee,  thou  Wedding-Guest  ! 

He  prayeth  well  who  loveth  well 
Both  man,  and  bird,  and  beast. 

"  He  prayeth  best  who  loveth  best 
All  things,  both  great  and  small : 

For  the  dear  God,  who  loveth  us, 
He  made  and  loveth  all. " 

The  Mariner  whose  eye  is  bright, 
Whose  beard  with  age  is  hoar, 

Is  gone  ;  and  now  the  Wedding-Guest 
Turned  from  the  bridegroom's  door. 

He  went  like  one,  that  hath  been  stunned, 

And  is  of  sense  forlorn  ; 
A  sadder  and  a  wiser  man 

He  rose  the  morrow  mom. 


:i8  HAND-BOOK   OF  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 


FRANCIS   JEFFREY. 

Francis  Jeffrey  was  born  in  Edinburgh  in  1773.  He  received  his  early  education  in  the 
High  School  of  his  native  city,  and  afterwards  in  the  Universities  of  Glasgow  and  Oxford. 
He  divided  his  time  between  law  and  letters,  and  became  equally  eminent  as  judge  and  as 
the  editor  of  the  famous  Edinburgh  Review. 

Criticism  is  a  comparatively  modem  science,  and  the  reviewer  has  but  lately  been  admit- 
ted among  authors.  The  faculty  of  appreciation,  even  in  its  mghest  forms,  is  very  diffierent 
from  that  of  creation  ;  but  some  critics  have  displayed  so  much  learning  and  taste,  have  in- 
fused so  much  of  imagination  into  their  work,  and  have  so  powerfully  directed  the  current 
of  public  opinion,  that  they  must  be  recognized,  in  any  survey  of  literary  history,  as  among 
the  most  useful,  if  not  always  the  most  brilliant,  of  writers.  The  essays  of  Jeffrey,  now 
published  in  one  large  octavo  volume,  extend  over  a  period  of  nearly  thirty  years  —  a  f>eriod 
almost  unexampled  in  the  number  of  great  and  original  works  to  which  it  gave  birth.  In 
his  capacity  as  critic  he  was  frequently  in  the  wrong — not  always  recognizing  genius  at  first 
sight ;  but  he  was  never  consciously  unfair ;  and  when  allowance  is  made  for  the  shock  of 
novel  impressions,  and  especially  for  the  lurking  prejudice  arising  from  party  politics  and 
from  literary  clanship,  Jeffrey  will  be  allowed  a  high  rank  as  a  just,  inflexible,  well-informed, 
and  elegant  writer.     He  died  in  1850. 

THE   UNCERTAIN   TENURE   OF   LITERARY   FAME. 
[From  a  Review  of  Campbell's  Specimens  of  the  British  Poets.] 

Next' to  the  impression  of  the  vast  fertility,  compass,  and  beauty 
of  our  English  poetry,  the  reflection  that  recurs  most  frequently  and 
forcibly  to  us  in  accompanying  Mr.  Campbell  through  his  wide  sur- 
vey, is  the  perishable  nature  of  poetical  fame,  and  the  speedy  obliv- 
ion that  has  overtaken  so  many  of  the  promised  heirs  of  immortality. 
Of  near  two  hundred  and  fifty  authors,  whose  works  are  cited  in 
these  volumes,  by  far  the  greater  part  of  whom  were  celebrated  in 
their  generation,  there  are  not  thirty  who  now  enjoy  anything  that 
can  be  called  popularity  —  whose  works  are  to  be  found  in  the  hands 
of  ordinary  readers,  in  the  shops  of  ordinary  booksellers,  or  in  the 
press  for  repubhcation.  About  fifty  more  may  be  tolerably  familiar 
to  men  of  taste  or  literature  :  the  rest  slumber  on  the  shelves  of 
collectors,  and  are  partially  known  to  a  few  antiquaries  and  scholars. 
Now,  the  fame  of  a  poet  is  popular,  or  nothing.  He  does  not  ad- 
dress himself,  like  the  man  of  science,  to  the  learned,  or  those  who 
desire  to  learn,  but  to  all  mankind  ;  and  his  purpose  being  to  delight 
and  to  be  praised,  necessarily  extends  to  all  who  can  receive  pleas- 
ure, or  join  in  applause.  It  is  strange,  and  somewhat  humiliating, 
to  see  how  great  a  proportion  of  those  who  had  once  fought  their 
way  successfully  to  distinction,  and  surmounted  the  rivalry  of  con- 
temporary envy,  have  again  sunk  into  neglect.  We  have  great  def- 
erence for  public  opinion,  and  readily  admit  that  nothing  but  what 


FRANCIS   JEFFREY.  319 

h  good  can  be  permanently  popular.  But  though  its  viva^  be  gen- 
erally oracular,  \\.^  pereat  appears  to  us  to  be  often  sufficiently  capri- 
cious ;  and  while  we  would  foster  all  that  it  bids  to  live,  we  would 
willingly  revive  much  that  it  leaves  to  die.  The  very  multiplication 
of  works  of  amusement  necessarily  withdraws  many  from  notice 
that  deserve  to  be  kept  in  remembrance  ;  for  we  should  soon  find  J. 
labor,  and  not  amusement,  if  we  were  obliged  to  make  use  of  them 
all,  or  even  to  take  all  upon  trial.  As  the  materials  of  enjoyment 
and  instruction  accumulate  around  us,  more  and  more  must  thus  be 
daily  rejected  and  left  to  waste  ;  for  while  our  tasks  lengthen,  our 
lives  remain  as  short  as  ever ;  and  the  calls  on  our  time  multiply, 
while  our  time  itself  is  flying  swiftly  away.  This  superfluity  and  abun- 
dance of  our  treasures,  therefore,  necessarily  renders  much  of  them 
worthless  ;  and  the  veriest  accidents  may,  in  such  a  case,  determine 
what  part  shall  be  preserved,  and  what  thrown  away  and  neglected. 
When  an  army  is  decimated^  the  very  bravest  may  fall ;  and  many 
poets,  worthy  of  eternal  remembrance,  have  ibeen  forgotten,  merely 
because  there  was  not  room  in  our  memories  for  all. 

By  such  a  work  as  the  Specimens,  however,  this  injustice  of  for- 
tune may  be  partly  redressed,  —  some  small  fragments  of  an  immor- 
tal strain  may  still  be  rescued  from  obHvion, — and  a  wreck  of  a 
name  preserved,  which  time  appeared  to  have  swallowed  up  forever. 
There  is  something  pious,  we  think,  and  endearing,  in  the  office  of 
thus  gathering  up  the  ashes  of  renown  that  has  passed  away  ;  or 
rather,  of  calling  back  the  departed  life  for  a  transitory  glow,  and 
enabling  those  great  spirits  which  seemed  to  be  laid  forever,  still  to 
draw  a  tear  of  pity,  or  a  throb  of  admiration,  from  the  hearts  of  a 
forgetful  generation.  The  body  of  their  poetry,  probably,  can  never 
be  revived ;  but  some  sparks  of  its  spirit  may  yet  be  preserved  in  a 
narrower  and  feebler  frame. 

When  we  look  back  upon  the  havoc  which  two  hundred  years 
have  thus  made  in  the  ranks  of  our  immortals, — and,  above  all, 
when  we  refer  their  rapid  disappearance  to  the  quick  succession  of 
new  competitors,  and  the  accumulation  of  more  good  works  than 
there  is  time  to  peruse,  —  we  cannot  help  being  dismayed  at  the 
prospect  which  lies  before  the  writers  of  the  present  day.  There 
never  was  an  age  so  prolific  of  popular  poetry  as  that  in  which  we 
now  live  ;  and  as  wealth,  population,  and  education  extend,  the 
produce  is  likely  to  go  on  increasing.  The  last  ten  years  have  pro- 
duced, we  think,  an  annual  supply  of  about  ten  thousand  lines  of 
good  staple  poetry  —  poetry  from  the  very  first  hands  that  we  can 


320  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

boast  of,  —  that  runs  quickly  to  three  or  four  large  editions,  —  and  is 
as  Hkely  to  be  permanent  as  present  success  can  make  it.  Now,  if 
this  goes  on  for  a  hundred  years  longer,  what  a  task  will  await  tb.e 
poetical  readers  of  1919  !  Our  living  poets  will  then  be  nearly  as 
old  as  Pope  and  Swift  are  at  present,  but  there  will  stand  between 
them  and  that  generation  nearly  ten  times  as  much  fresh  and  fash- 
ionable poetry  as  is  now  interposed  between  us  and  those  writers  ; 
and  if  Scott,  and  Byron,  and  Campbell  have  already  cast  Pope  and 
Swift  a  good  deal  into  the  shade,  in  what  form  and  dimensions  are 
they  themselves  likely  to  be  presented  to  the  eyes  of  their  great- 
grandchildren ?  The  thought,  we  own,  is  a  little  appalling ;  and,  we 
confess,  -we  see  nothing  better  to  imagine  than  that  they  may  find  a 
comfortable  place  in  some  new  collection  of  specimens  —  the  cen- 
tenary of  the  present  publication.  There  —  if  the  future  editor  have 
anything  like  the  indulgence  and  veneration  for  antiquity  of  his 
predecessor  —  there  shall  posterity  still  hang  with  rapture  on  the  half 
of  Campbell,  and  the  fourth  part  of  Byron,  and  the  sixth  of  Scott, 
and  the  scattered  tithes  of  Crabbe,  and  the  three  per  cent,  of 
Southey;  while  some  good-natured  critic  shall  sit  in  our  moulder- 
ing chair,  and  more  than  half  prefer  them  to  those  by  whom  they 
have  been  superseded  !  It  is  an  hyperbole  of  good  nature,  however, 
we  fear,  to  ascribe  to  them  even  those  dimensions  at  the  end  of  a 
century.  After  a  lapse  of  two  hundred  and  fifty  years,  we  are  afraid 
to  think  of  the  space  they  may  have  shrunk  into.  We  have  no 
Shakespeare,  alas  !  to  shed  a  never-setting  light  on  his  contempora- 
ries ;  and  if  we  continue  to  write  and  rhyme  at  the  present  rate  for 
two  hundred  years  longer,  there  must  be  some  new  art  of  short- 
hand reading  invented,  or  all  reading  must  be  given  up  in  despair. 


ROBERT    SOUTHEY. 

If  in  the  history  of  literature  the  space  allotted  to  an  author  were  measured  by  the  amount 
of  labor  done  ;  and  if  that  labor  had  included  years  of  thought  and  endeavor,  following  years 
of  faithful  study  ;  if  this  were  the  history  of  no  ordinary  mind,  but  of  one  full  of  noble  ideas, 
and  enriched  by  illustrations  from  all  the  learning  of  the  ages  ;  if  to  strong  natural  sense  the 
charm  of  a  beautiful  style  were  added  ;  and  if  for  all  these  faculties  and  energies  it  should 
be  claimed  that  fame  would  properly  and  inevitably  follow,  —  then  immortality  could  have 
been  surely  predicted  for  Robert  Southey. 

He  was  born  in  1774,  was  educated  at  Westminster  School,  and  afterwards  spent  two  years 
at  Oxford.  He  was  in  early  life  a  democrat  in  politics,  and  a  Unitarian  in  religion,  but  be- 
came conservative  in  after  years.  He  married  the  sister  of  Mrs.  S.  T.  Coleridge,  and  resided 
in  the  Lake  district,  a  companion  and  friend  of  Wordsworth.     His  life  was  wholly  devoted 


ROBERT   SOUTHEY.  321 

to  literary  pursuits,  and  his  industry,  both  as  a  student  and  writer,  was  unparalleled.  But 
if  he  had  the  divine  "  vision,"  the  rarer  divine  "faculty"  was  wanting.  His  poems,  as  a 
rule,  are  wholly  wanting  in  human  interest ;  their  inspiration  was  from  the  author's  library, 
not  from  the  world  of  nature  or  of  man.  And  though  the  search  for  flowers  should  be  made 
for  the  hundredth  time,  only  a  few  scattered  blossoms  could  be  gathered  from  his  intermina- 
ble gardens.  It  is  but  just  to  say,  however,  that  many  of  these  poetic  blooms  are  perfect  of 
their  kind.  His  principal  poems  are  The  Curse  of  Kehama,  Thalaba,  Madoc,  Roderick 
the  Last  of  the  Goths,  and  The  Vision  of  Judgment.  The  last  was  savagely  burlesqued  by 
Lord  Byron.  His  most  popular  prose  work,  the  Life  of  Lord  Nelson,  is  still  read.  An- 
other singular  medley  of  essay,  co  loquy,  and  criticism,  entitled  The  Doctor,  is  highly 
esteemed  by  scholars.  He  was  appointed  poet-laureate  in  1813.  In  his  private  life  he  was 
without  a  stain  ;  and  his  cheerful  temper,  lively  fancy,  and  genuine  scholarly  tastes,  endeared 
him  to  all  his  circle.  He  died  in  1843.  His  Ufe  and  letters  have  been  published  in  six  vol- 
umes by  his  son,  Rev.  Charles  Cuthbert  Southey. 

THE   SCHOLAR. 

My  days  among  the  Dead  are  past ; 

Around  me  I.  behold, 
Where'er  these  casual  eyes  are  cast, 

The  mighty  minds  of  old  : 
My  never- failing  friends  are  they, 
With  whom  I  converse  day  by  day. 

With  them  I  take  delight  in  weal, 

And  seek  reUef  in  woe  ; 
And  while  I  understand  and  feel 

How  much  to  them  I  owe. 
My  cheeks  have  often  been  bedewed 
With  tears  of  thoughtful  gratitude. 

My  thoughts  are  with  the  Dead  ;  with  them 

I  live  in  long-past  years. 
Their  virtues  love,  their  faults  condemn, 

Partake  their  hopes  and  fears. 
And  from  their  lessons  seek  and  find 
Instruction  with  a  humble  mind. 

My  hopes  are  with  the  Dead  ;  anon 

My  place  with  them  will  be. 
And  I  with  them  shall  travel  on 

Through  all  Futurity  ; 
Yet  leaving  here  a  name,  I  trust, 
That  will  not  perish  in  the  dust. 

21 


322  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

IMMORTALITY   OF  LOVE. 

They  sin  who  tell  us  Love  can  die. 
With  life  all  other  passions  fly, 

All  others  are  but  vanity. 
In  heaven  Ambition  cannot  dwell, 
Nor  Avarice  in  the  vaults  of  hell ; 
Earthly  these  passions  of  the  earth, 
They  perish  where  they  had  their  birth. 

But  Love  is  indestructible  ; 
Its  holy  flame  forever  burneth  ; 
From  heaven  it  came,  to  heaven  returneth. 
Too  oft  on  earth  a  troubled  guest. 
At  times  deceived,  at  times  oppressed, 

It  here  is  tried  and  purified, 
Then  hath  in  heaven  its  perfect  rest : 
It  soweth  here  with  toil  and  care, 
But  the  harvest-time  of  Love  is  there. 
O,  when  a  mother  meets  on  high 
The  babe  she  lost  in  infancy. 
Hath  she  not  then,  for  pains  and  fears, 

The  day  of  woe,  the  watchful  night, 
For  all  her  sorrows,  all  her  tears. 

An  over-payment  of  delight  ? 


THE  INCHCAPE  ROCK. 

No  stir  in  the  air,  no  stir  in  the  sea. 

The  ship  was  still  as  she  might  be  ; 

Her  sails  from  heaven  received  no  motion  — 

Her  keel  was  steady  in  the  ocean. 

Without  either  sign  or  sound  of  their  shock. 
The  waves  flowed  over  the  Inchcape  Rock ; 
So  httle  they  rose,  so  little  they  fell, 
They  did  not  move  the  Inchcape  Bell. 

The  holy  abbot  of  Aberbrothok 
Had  floated  that  bell  on  the  Inchcape  Rock  ; 
On  the  waves  of  the  storm  it  floated  and  swung, 
And  louder  and  louder  its  warning  rung. 


ROBERT   SOUTHEY.  323 

When  the  rock  was  hid  by  the  tempest's  swell, 
The  mariners  heard  the  warning  bell ; 
And  then  they  knew  the  perilous  Rock, 
And  blessed  the  priest  of  Aberbrothok. 

The  sun  in  heaven  shone  so  gay, 

All  things  were  joyful  on  that  day  ; 

The  sea-birds  screamed  as  they  sported  round, 

And  there  was  pleasure  in  their  sound. 

The  float  of  the  Inchcape  Bell  was  seen, 
A  darker  speck  on  the  ocean  green  ; 
Sir  Ralph  the  Rover  walked  his  deck, 
And  he  fixed  his  eye  on  the  darker  speck. 

He  felt  the  cheering  power  of  Spring  ; 
It  made  him  whistle,  it  made  him  sing; 
His  heart  was  mirthful  to  excess, 
But  the  Rover's  mirth  was  wickedness. 

His  eye  was  on  the  bell  and  float ; 
Quoth  he,  "  My  men,  pull  out  the  boat. 
And  row  me  to  the  Inchcape  Rock, 
And  I'll  plague  the  priest  of  Aberbrothok." 

The  boat  is  lowered,  the  boatmen  row. 
And  to  the  Inchcape  Rock  they  go  ; 
Sir  Ralph  bent  over  from  the  boat. 
And  cut  the  warning  bell  from  the  float. 

Down  sank  the  bell  with  a  gurgling  sound  ; 

The  bubbles  rose,  and  burst  aground. 

Quoth  Sir  Ralph,  "  The  next  who  comes  to  the  Rock 

Will  not  bless  the  priest  of  Aberbrothok." 

Sir  Ralph  the  Rover  sailed  away ; 
He  scoured  the  seas  for  many  a  day ; 
And  now,  grown  rich  with  plundered  store, 
He  steers  his  course  to  Scotland's  shore. 

So  thick  a  haze  o'erspreads  the  sky, 
They  could  not  see  the  sun  on  high ; 


324  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

The  wind  hath  blown  a  gale  all  day ; 
At  evening  it  hath  died  away. 

On  the  deck  the  Rover  takes  his  stand ; 
So  dark  it  is,  they  see  no  land  ; 
Quoth  Sir  Ralph,  "  It  will  be  lighter  soon. 
For  there  is  the  dawn  of  the  rising  moon." 

"  Canst  hear,"  said  one,  "  the  breakers  roar  ? 
For  yonder,  methinks,  should  be  the  shore. 
Now  where  we  are  I  cannot  tell. 
But  I  wish  we  could  hear  the  Inchcape  Bell." 

They  hear  no  sound  ;  the  swell  is  strong  ; 
Though  the  wind  hath  fallen,  they  drift  along, 
Till  the  vessel  strikes  with  a  shivering  shock - 
O  Christ,  it  is  the  Inchcape  Rock  ! 


CHARLES    LAMB. 

Charles  Lamb  was  born  in  one  of  the  chambers  of  the  Inner  Temple  in  London  in  1775. 
He  was  educated  at  Christ's  Hospital,  where  he  had  Coleridge  as  a  schoolmate,  and  passed 
the  active  part  of  his  life  as  a  clerk  in  the  East  India  House.  In  the  Essays  of  Elia  there 
are  many  beautiful  retrospective  pictures  of  the  Temple  and  its  inmates,  and  of  the  Charity 
School.  From  liis  youth  he  was  accustomed  to  a  condition  but  a  degree  above  poveny,  and 
was  early  taught  the  useful  lessons  of  self-denial  and  self-dependence.  Later  in  life  his 
writings  added  to  his  income,  but  his  frugal  habits  remained,  and  the  surplus  was  unself- 
ishly bestowed  upon  others.  His  lot  in  many  respects  was  a  hard  one :  his  father  was  an 
imbecile  ;  his  sister  was  a  maniac,  who,  in  a  sudden  frenzy,  in  his  own  presence,  at  the  din- 
ner table,  killed  their  mother  with  a  carving-knife,  and  who  required  incessant  care  for  the  re- 
mainder of  her  frequently  clouded  life  ;  and,  what  was  almost  as  hard  to  bear,  his  elder  brother 
John  refused  to  contribute  anything  to  the  support  of  this  ill-starred  family,  leaving  the 
whole  burden  upon  one  slender  clerk  with  the  least  natural  aptitude  for  business. 

The  writings  of  Charles  Lamb  are  not  pretentious  "  works  ;  "  they  are  the  natural  over- 
flow of  an  original  fountain ;  they  are  as  personal  as  the  essays  of  Montaigne,  but  they 
have  a  sweet,  unconscious  simplicity  to  which  the  great  Frenchman  was  a  stranger.  Lamb 
may  be  taken  as  the  incarnation  and  exemplar  of  Humor.  If  the  gentle  current  of  his 
thought  sometimes  ripples,  and  again  plunges  in  an  unexpected  cascade  of  wit,  it  is  never 
an  mcongruous  change.  The  wit  of  Jerrold  bites  like  a  mineral  acid  ;  the  wit  of  Bacon 
crystallizes  in  aphoristic  gems  ;  Sydney  Smith,  with  the  spirits  of  a  lively  boy,  keeps  up  a 
crackling  blaze  of  fireworks  ;  Sheridan's  stage  repartees  show  the  brilliant  points  of  rapier 
fencing;  Hood's  puns,  though  the  best,  often  seem  to  have  been  sought  out  "with  malice 
aforethought;"  Lamb,  though  he  might  at  times  resemble  the  one  or  the  other,  never 
inflicted  pain,  never  "struck  an  attitude  "  to  say  a  smart  thing,  and  never  ransacked  the 
world  for  verbal  quibbles.  His  essays  and  letters,  gay,  serious,  brilliant,  and  tender  by 
turns,  simply  reflect,  as  in  a  mirror,  his  delicate,  quick,  genial  nature. 


CHARLES    LAMB. 


325 


Though  shy  and  reserved  before  strangers,  Lamb  was  a  delightful  companion  when  with 
his  friends.  Hazlitt,  Procter  ("Barry  Cornwall"),  Talfourd,  and  others  have  given  full 
and  affectionate  accounts  of  his  unique  character  and  inimitable  conversation.  Hazlitt 
says,  "  He  always  made  the  best  pun  and  the  best  remark  in  the  course  of  the  evening. 
His  serious  conversation,  like  his  serious  writing,  is  his  best.  No  one  ever  stammered  out 
such  fine,  piquant,  deep,  eloquent  things,  in  a  half  a  dozen  sentences,  as  he  does.  His 
jests  scald  like  tears  ;  and  he  probes  a  question  with  a  play  upon  words." 

Mr.  N.  P.  Willis,  in  Pencillings  by  the  Way,  describes  him  as  "  a  gentleman  in  black 
small-clothes  and  gaiters,  short  and  very  slight  in  person,  his  head  set  on  his  shoulders  with 
a  thoughtful  forward  bent,  his  hair  just  sprinkled  with  gray,  a  beautiful  deep-set  eye,  an 
aquiline  nose,  and  a  very  indescribable  mouth.  Whether  it  expressed  most  humor  or  feel- 
ing, good  nature  or  a  kind  of  whimsical  peevishness,  or  twenty  other  things  which  passed 
over  it  by  turns,  I  cannot  in  the  least  be  certain." 

Lamb  died  in  1834,  aged  fifty-nine.  His  Life  and  Letters  were  given  to  the  world  by  Sir 
T.  N.  Talfourd.  "  Barry  Cornwall  "  also  published  a  memoir,  full  of  personal  anecdote, 
and  pervaded  by  a  tender  feeling.  His  works  have  been  reprinted  in  this  country  in  a 
handsome  library  edition  of  four  volumes. 

DISSERTATION   ON   ROAST   PIG. 

Mankind,  says  a  Chinese  manuscript,  which  my  friend  M.  was 
obliging  enough  to  read  and  explain  to  me,  for  the  first  seventy 
thousand  ages  ate  their  meat  raw,  clawing  or  biting  it  from  the  liv- 
ing animal,  just  as  they  do  in  Abyssinia  to  this  day.  This  period  is 
not  obscurely  hinted  at  by  their  great  Confucius  in  the  second  chap- 
ter of  his  Mundane  Mutations,  where  he  designates  a  kind  of  golden 
age  by  the  term  Cho-fang,  literally  the  Cooks'  Holiday.  The  man- 
uscript goes  on  to  say,  that  the  art  of  roasting,  or  rather  broiling 
(which  I  take  to  be  the  elder  brother),  was  accidentally  discovered  in 
the  manner  following :  The  swineherd,  Ho-ti,  having  gone  out  into 
the  woods  one  morning,  as  his  manner  was,  to  collect  njg^t-ibr  his 
hogs,  left  his  cottage  in  the  care  of  his  eldest  son,  Bo-bo,  a  great 
lubberly  boy,  who,  being  fond  of  playing  with  fire,  as  younkers  of 
his  age  commonly  are,  let  some  sparks  escape  into  a  bundle  of 
straw,  which,  kindling  quickly,  spread  the  conflagration  over  every 
part  of  their  poor  mansion  till  it  was  reduced  to  ashes.  Together 
with  the  cottage,  —  a  sorry  antediluvian  makeshift  of  a  building,  you 
may  think  it, — what  was  of  much  more  importance,  a  fine  litter  of 
new-farrowed  pigs,  no  less  than  nine  in  number,  perished.  China 
pigs  have  been  esteemed  a  luxury  all  over  the  East  from  the  remotest 
periods  that  we  read  of.  Bo-bo  was  in  the  utmost  consternation,  as 
you  may  think,  not  so  much  for  the  sake  of  the  tenement,  which  his 
father  and  he  could  easily  build  up  again  with  a  few  dry  branches, 
and  the  labor  of  an  hour  or  two,  at  any  time,  as  for  the  loss  of  the 
pigs.  While  he  was  thinking  what  he  should  say  to  his  father,  and 
wringing  his  hands  over  the  smoking  remnants  of  one  of  those 


326  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

untimely  sufferers,  an  odor  assailed  his  nostrils  unlike  any  scent  which 
he  had  before  experienced.  What  could  it  proceed  from.?  —  not 
from  the  burnt  cottage, — he  had  smelt  that  smell  before,  —  indeed, 
this  was  by  no  means  the  first  accident  of  the  kind  which  had  oc- 
curred through  the  negligence  of  this  unlucky  young  firebrand. 
Much  less  did  it  resemble  that  of  any  known  herb,  weed,  or  flower. 
A  premonitory  moistening  at  the  same  time  overflowed  his  nether 
lip.  He  knew  not  what  to  think.  He  next  stooped  down  to  feel  the 
pig,  if  there  were  any  signs  of  life  in  it.  He  burnt  his  fingers,  and  to 
cool  them  he  applied  them  in  his  booby  fashion  to  his  mouth.  Some 
of  the  crumbs  of  the  scorched  skin  had  come  away  with  his  fingers, 
and  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  (in  the  world's  life  indeed,  for  before 
him  no  man  had  known  it)  he  tasted  —  cracidin^!  Again  he  felt 
and  fumbled  at  the  pig.  It  did  not  burn  him  so  much  now  ;  still  he 
liclced  his  fingers  from  a  sort  of  habit.  The  truth  at  length  broke 
into  his  slow  understanding,  that  it  was  the  pig  that  smelt  so,  and 
the  pig  that  tasted  so  delicious  ;  and,  surrendering  himself  up  to  the 
new-born  pleasure,  he  fell  to  tearing  up  whole  handfuls  of  the 
scorched  skin  with  the  flesh  next  it,  and  was  cramming  it  down  his 
throat  in  his  beastly  fashion,  when  his  sire  entered  amid  the  smoking 
rafters,  armed  with  retributory  cudgel,  and,  finding  how  affairs  stood, 
began  to  rain  blows  upon  the  young  rogue's  shoulders  as  thick  as 
hailstones,  which  Bo-bo  heeded  not  any  more  than  if  they  had  been 
flies.  The  tickling  pleasure  which  he  experienced  in  his  lower  re- 
gions had  rendered  him  quite  callous  to  any  inconveniences  he 
might  feel  in  those  remote  quarters.  His  father  might  lay  on,  but 
he  could  not  beat  him  from  his  pig  till  he  had  fairly  made  an  end  of 
it,  when,  becoming  a  little  more  sensible  of  his  situation,  something 
like  the  following  dialogue  ensued  :  ^ — 

"You  graceless  whelp,  what  have  you  got  there  devouring?  Is 
it  not  enough  that  you  have  burnt  me  down  three  houses  with  your 
dog's  tricks,  and  be  hanged  to  you  !  but  you  must  be  eating  fire,  and 
I  know  not  what  ?     What  have  you  got  there,  I  say  ?  " 

"  O,  father,  the  pig,  the  pig !  do  come  and  taste  how  nice  the 
burnt  pig  eats  !  " 

The  ears  of  Ho-ti  tingled  with  horror.  He  cursed  his  son,  and  he 
cursed  himself  that  ever  he  should  beget  a  son  that  should  eat 
burnt  pig. 

Bo-bo,  whose  scent  was  wonderfully  sharpened  since  morning, 
soon  raked  out  another  pig,  and,  fairly  rending  it  asunder,  thrust  the 
lesser  half  by  main  force  into  the  fists  of  Ho-ti,  still  shouting  out, 


CHARLES   LAMB.  327 

"  Eat,  eat,  eat  the  burnt  pig,  father  ;  only  taste  ;  O  Lord  !  "  —  with 
such  hke  barbarous  ejaculations,  cramming  all  the  while  as  if  he 
would  choke. 

Ho-ti  trembled  in  every  joint  while  he  grasped  the  abominable  thing, 
wavering  whether  he  should  not  put  his  son  to  death  for  an  unnat- 
ural young  monster,  when  the  crackling  scorching  his  fingers,  as  it 
had  done  his  son's,  and  applying  the  same  remedy  to  them,  he  in 
his  turn  tasted  some  of  its  flavor,  which,  make  what  sour  mouths  he 
would  for  a  pretence,  proved  not  altogether  displeasing  to  him.  In 
conclusion  (for  the  manuscript  here  is  a  little  tedious),  both  father 
and  son  fairly  set  down  to  the  mess,  and  never  left  off  till  they  had 
despatched  all  that  remained  of  the  litter. 

Bo-bo  was  strictly  enjoined  not  to  let  the  secret  escape,  for  the 
neighbors  would  certainly  have  stoned  them  for  a  couple  of  abomi- 
nable wretches,  who  could  think  of  improving  upon  the  good  meat 
which  God  had  sent  them.  Nevertheless,  strange  stories  got  about. 
It  was  observed  that  Ho-ti's  cottage  was  burnt  down  now  more  fre- 
quently than  ever.  Nothing  but  fires  from  this  time  forward.  Some 
would  break  out  in  broad  day,  others  in  the  night  time.  As  often  as 
the  sow  farrowed,  so  sure  was  the  house  of  Ho-ti  to  be  in  a  blaze  ; 
and  Ho-ti  himself,  which  was  the  more  remarkable,  instead  of  chas- 
tising his  son,  seemed  to  grow  more  indulgent  to  him  than  ever.  At 
length  they  were  watched,  the  terrible  mystery  discovered,  and  father 
and  son  summoned  to  take  their  trial  at  Pekin,  then  an  inconsider- 
able assize  town.  Evidence  was  given,  the  obnoxious  food  itself 
produced  in  court,  and  verdict  about  to  be  pronounced,  when  the 
foreman  of  the  jury  begged  that  some  of  the  burnt  pig,  of  which 
the  culprits  stood  accused,  might  be  handed  into  the  box.  He 
handled  it,  and  they  all  handled  it ;  and  burning  their  fingers,  as 
Bo-bo  and  his  father  had  done  before  them,  and  nature  prompting  to 
each  of  them  the  same  remedy,  against  the  face  of  all  the  facts,  and 
the  clearest  charge  which  judge  had  ever  given,  —  to  the  surprise 
of  the  whole  court,  townsfolk,  strangers,  reporters,  and  all  present, 
—  without  leaving  the  box,  or  any  manner  of  consultation  whatever, 
they  brought  in  a  simultaneous  verdict  of  Not  Guilty. 

The  judge,  who  was  a  shrewd  fellow,  winked  at  the  manifest  in- 
iquity of  the  decision  ;  and  when  the  court  was  dismissed,  went 
privily,  and  bought  up  all  the  pigs  that  could  be  had  for  love  or 
money.  In  a  few  days  his  Lordship's  town-house  was  observed  to 
be  on  fire.  The  thing  took  wing,  and  now  there  was  nothing  to  be 
seen  but  fire  in  every  direction.     Fuel  and  pigs  grew  enormously 


328  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

dear  all  over  the  district.  The  insurance  offices  one  and  all  shut  up 
shop.  People  built  slighter  and  slighter  every  day,  until  it  was 
feared  that  the  very  science  of  architecture  would  in  no  long  time 
be  lost  to  the  world.  Thus  this  custom  of  firing  houses  continued, 
till  in  process  of  time,  says  my  manuscript,  a  sage  arose,  like  our 
Locke,  who  made  a  discovery,  that  the  flesh  of  swine,  or  indeed  of 
any  other  animal,  might  be  cooked  {burnt,  as  they  called  it)  without 
the  necessity  of  consuming  a  whole  house  to  dress  it.  Then  first 
began  the  rude  form  of  a  gridiron.  Roasting  by  the  string  or  spit 
came  in  a  century  or  two  later  ;  I  forget  in  whose  dynasty.  By  such 
slow  degrees,  concludes  the  manuscript,  do  the  most  useful,  and 
seemingly  the  most  obvious,  arts  make  their  way  among  mankind. 

Without  placing  too  implicit  faith  in  the  account  above  given,  it 
must  be  agreed,  that  if  a  worthy  pretext  for  so  dangerous  an  experi- 
ment as  setting  houses  on  fire  (especially  in  these  days)  could  be 
assigned  in  favor  of  any  culinary  object,  that  pretext  and  excuse 
might  be  found  in  Roast  Pig. 

Of  all  the  delicacies  in  the  whole  mu7idiis  edibilis,  I  will  maintain 
it  to  be  the  most  delicate  — prificeps  obsoniorum. 

I  speak  not  of  your  grown  porkers,  —  things  between  pig  and 
pork,  —  those  hobbydehoys,  —  but  a  young  and  tender  suckling, — 
under  a  moon  old, — guiltless  as  yet  of  the  sty,  —  with  no  original 
speck  of  the  afnor  iinmunditics^  the  hereditary  failing  of  the  first 
parent,  yet  manifest  —  his  voice  as  yet  not  broken,  but  something 
between  a  childish  treble  and  a  grumble  —  the  mild  forerunner,  or 
prcEludiu7n,  of  a  grunt. 

He  must  be  roasted.  I  am  not  ignorant  that  our  ancestors  ate 
them  seethed,  or  boiled  —  but  what  a  sacrifice  of  the  exterior  tegu- 
ment !l      ,  '  I      :  '    ' 

Therfe  is  no  flavor  comparable,  I  will  contend,  to  that  of  the  crisp, 
tawny,  well-watched,  not  over-roasted,  crackling.,  as  it  is  well  called,  — 
the  very  teeth  are  invited  to  their  share  of  the  pleasure  at  this  banquet 
in  overcoming  the  coy,  brittle  resistance,  —  with  the  adhesive  oleagi- 
nous—  O,  call  it  not  fat !  but  an  indefinable  sweetness  growing  up 
to  it,  —  the  tender  blossoming  of  fat,  —  fat  cropped  in  the  bud, — 
taken  in  the  shoot,  —  in  the  first  innocence,  —  the  cream  and  quint- 
essence of  the  child-pig's  yet  pure  food, — the  lean,  no  lean,  but  a 
kind  of  animal  manna,  —  or,  rather,  fat  and  lean  (if  it  must  be  so) 
so  blended  and  running  into  each  other,  that  both  together  make  but 
one  ambrosian  result,  or  common  substance. 

Behold  him  while  he  is  "doing"  —  it  seemeth  rather  a  refreshing 


CHARLES   LAMB.  329 

warmth,  than  a  scorching  heat,  that  he  is  so  passive  to.  How 
equably  he  twirleth  round  the  string !  Now  he  is  just  done.  To 
see  the  extreme  sensibihty  of  that  tender  age  !  he  hath  wept  out  his 
pretty  eyes  —  radiant  jelhes  —  shooting  stars. 

See  him  in  the  dish,  his  second  cradle,  how  meek  he  lieth  1  — 
wouldst  thou  have  had  this  innocent  grow  up  to  the  grossness  and 
indocility  which  too  often  accompany  maturer  swinehood  ?  Ten  to 
one  he  would  have  proved  a  glutton,  a  sloven,  an  obstinate,  disagree- 
able animal,  wallowing  in  all  manner  of  filthy  conversation  :  from 
these  sins  he  is  happily  snatched  away ;  his  memory  is  odoriferous  ;  • 
no  clown  curseth,  while  his  stomach  half  rejecteth,  the  rank  bacon  ; 
no  coal-heaver  bolteth  him  in  reeking  sausages  ;  (lie  hath  a  fair  sep- 
ulchre in  the  grateful  stomach  of  the  judicious  epicure,  and  for 
such  a  tomb  might  be  content  to  die.JP 

He  is  the  best  of  sapQi:s.  Pine-apple  is  great.  She  is,  indeed,  al- 
most too  transcendent  —  a  delight,  if  not  sinful,  yet  so  like  to  sinning 
that  really  a  tender  conscienced  person  would  do  well  to  pause  ;  too 
ravishing  for  mortal  taste,  she  woundeth  and  excoriateth  the  lips 
that  approach  her ;  she  is  a  pleasure  bordering  on  pain  from  the 
fierceness  and  insanity  of  her  relish  ;  but  she  stoppeth  at  the  pal- 
ate ;  she  meddleth  not  with  the  appetite ;  and  the  coarsest  hunger 
might  barter  her  consistently  for  a  mutton-chop. 

Pig — let  me  speak  his  praise  —  is  no  less  provocative  of  the  ap- 
petite than  he  is  satisfactory  to  the  criticalness  of  the  censorious 
palate.  The  strong  man  may  batten  on  him,  and  the  weakling  re- 
fuseth  not  his  mild  juices. 

Unhke  to  mankind's  mixed  characters,  a  bundle  of  virtues  and 
vices,  inexplicably  intertwisted,  and  not  to  be  unravelled  without 
hazard,  he  is  —  good  throughout.  No  part  of  him  is  better  or  worse 
than  another.  He  helpeth,  as  far  as  his  little  means  extend,  all 
around.   He  is  the  least  envious  of  banquets.   He  is  all  neighbor's  fare. 

I  am  one  of  those  who  freely  and  ungrudgingly  impart  a  share  of 
the  good  things  of  this  life  which  fall  to  their  lot  (few  as  mine  are  in 
this  kind)  to  a  friend.  I  protest  I  take  as  great  an  interest  in  my 
friend's  pleasures,  his  relishes,  and  proper  satisfactions,  as  in  mine 
own.  ^"Presents,"  I  often  say,  "endear  Absents.'^  Hares,  pheas- 
ants, partridges,  snipes,  barn-door  chickens  (those  "tame  villatic 
fowl "),  capons,  plovers,  brawn,  barrels  of  oysters,  I  dispense  as 
freely  as  I  receive  them.  I  love  to  taste  them,  as  it  were,  upon  the 
tongue  of  my  friend.  But  a  stop  must  be  put  somewhere.  One 
would  not,  like  Lear,  "  give  everything."     I  make  my  stand  upon 


330  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

pig.  Methinks  it  is  an  ingratitude  to  the  Giver  of  all  good  flavors 
to  extra-domiciliate,  or  send  out  of  the  house,  slightingly  (under 
pretext  of  friendship,  or  I  know  not  what),  a  blessing  so  particularly 
adapted,  predestined,  I  may  say,  to  my  individual  palate.  It  argues 
an  insensibility. 

I  remember  a  touch  of  conscience  in  this  kind  at  school.  My 
good  old  aunt,  who  never  parted  from  me  at  the  end  of  a  holiday 
without  stuffing  a  sweetmeat,  or  some  nice  thing,  into  my  jDOcket,  had 
dismissed  me  one  evening  with  a  smoking  plurn-cake  fresh  from  the 
oven.  In  my  way  to  school  (it  was  over  London  bridge)  a  gray- 
headed  old  beggar  saluted  me  (I  have  no  doubt,  at  this  time  of  day, 
that  he  was  a  counterfeit).  I  had  no  pence  to  console  him  with, 
and,  in  the  vanity  of  self-denial,  and  the  very  coxcombry  of  charity, 
school-boy-like,  I  made  him  a  present  of — the  whole  cake!  I 
walked  on  a  little,  buoyed  up,  as  one  is  on  such  occasions,  with  a 
sweet  soothing  of  self-satisfaction  ;  but,  before  I  had  got  to  the  end 
of  the  bridge,  my  better  feelings  returned,  and  I  burst  into  tears, 
thinking  how  ungrateful  I  had  been  to  my  good  aunt,  to  go  and  give 
her  good  gift  away  to  a  stranger  that  I  had  never  seen  before,  and 
who  might  be  a  bad  man  for  aught  I  knew ;  and  then  I  thought  of 
the  pleasure  my  aunt  would  be  taking  in  thinking  that  I  —  I  myself, 
and  not  another  —  would  eat  her  nice  cake,  —  and  what  should  I  say 
to  her  the  next  time  I  saw  her  ?  —  how  naughty  I  was  to  part  with 
her  pretty  present! — and  the  odor  of  that  spicy  cake  came  back 
upon  my  recollection,  and  the  pleasure  and  the  curiosity  I  had  taken 
in  seeing  her  make  it,  and  her  joy  when  she  sent  it  to  the  oven,  and 
how  disappointed  she  would  feel  that  I  had  never  had  a  bit  of  it  in 
my  mouth  at  last,  —  and  I  blamed  my  impertinent  spirit  of  alms- 
giving and  out-of-place  hypocrisy  of  goodness  ;  and,  above  all,  I 
wished  never  to  see  the  face  again  of  that  insidious,  good-for-npth- 
.ing,  old  gray  impostor. 

His  sauce  should  be  considered.  Decidedly,  a  few  bread-crumbs, 
done  up  with  his  liver  and  brains,  and  a  dash  of  mild  sage.  But 
banish,  dear  Mrs.  Cook,  I  beseech  you,  the  whole  onion  tribe.  Bar- 
becue your  whole  hogs  to  your  palate,  steep  them  in  shallots,  stuff 
them  out  with  plantations  of  the  rank  and  guilty  garlic  ;  you  cannot 
poison  them,  or  make  them  stronger  than  they  are ;  but  consider, 
he  is  a  weakling  —  a  flower. 


CHARLES   LAMB,  33 1 


DISTANT   CORRESPONDENTS. 

IN   A    LETTER   TO    B.    F.,    ESQ,,    AT   SYDNEY,    NEW   i,OUTH    WALES. 

My  dear  F.  :  When  I  think  how  welcome  the  sight  of  a  letter 
from  the  world  where  you  were  born  must  be  to  you  in  that  strange 
one  to  which  you  have  been  transplanted,  I  feel  some  compunctious 
visitings  at  my  long  silence  ;  but,  indeed,  it  is  no  easy  effort  to  set 
about  a  correspondence  at  our  distance.  The  weary  world  of  waters 
between  us  oppresses  the  imagination.  It  is  difficult  to  conceive 
how  a  scrawl  of  mine  should  ever  stretch  across  it.  It  is  a  sort  of  pre- 
sumption to  expect  that  one's  thoughts  should  live  so  far.  It  is  like 
writing  for  jDosterity,  and  reminds  me  of  one  of  Mrs.  Rowe's  super- 
scriptions—  "  Alcander  to  Strephon  in  the  Shades."  Cowley's  Post- 
Angel  is  no  more  than  would  be  expedient  in  such  an  intercourse. 
One  drops  a  packet  at  Lombard  Street,  and  in  twenty-four  hours  a 
friend  in  Cumberland  gets  it  as  fresh  as  if  it  came  in  ice.  It  is 
only  like  whispering  through  a  long  trumpet.  But  suppose  a  tube 
let  down  from  the  moon,  with  yourself  at  one  end,  and  the  man  at 
the  other  ;  it  would  be  some  balk  to  the  spirit  of  conversation  if  you 
knew  that  the  dialogue  exchanged  with  that  interesting  theosophist 
would  take  two  or  three  revolutions  of  a  higher  luminary  in  its  pas-  .  / 
sage.  Yet,  for  aught  I  know,  you  maybe  some  parasangs  nigher  "J  'v 
that  primitive  idea  —  Plato's  man  —  than  we  in  England  here  have 
the  honor  to  reckon  ourselves. 

Espistolary  matter  usually  compriseth  three  topics  —  news,  sen- 
timent, and  puns.  In  the  latter  I  include  all  non-serious  subjects, 
or  subjects  serious  in  themselves,  but  treated  after  my  fashion,  non- 
seriously.  And  first,  for  news.  In  them  the  most  desirable  circum- 
stance, I  suppose,  is,  that  they  shall  be  true.  But  what  security  can 
I  have  that  what  I  now  send  you  for  truth  shall  not,  before  you  get 
it,  unaccountably  turn  into  a  lie  ?  For  instance,  our  mutual  friend 
P.  is  at  this  present  writing  —  my  Now  —  in  good  health,  and  enjoys 
a  fair  share  of  worldly  reputation.  You  are  glad  to  hear  it.  This  is 
natural  and  friendly.  But  at  this  present  reading — your  Now  —  he 
may  possibly  be  in  the  Bench,  or  going  to  be  hanged,  which  in 
reason  ought  to  abate  something  of  your  transport  (i.  e.,  at  hearing 
he  was  well,  &c.),  or  at  least  considerably  to  modify  it.  I  am  going 
to  the  play  this  evening,  to  have  a  laugh  with  Munden.  .  .  .  You 
naturally  lick  your  lips,  and  envy  me  my  felicity.  Think  but  a  mo- 
ment, and  you  will  correct  the  hateful  emotion.     Why,  it  is  Sunday 


332  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

morning  with  you,  and  1823  !  Tliis  confusion  of  tenses,  this  grand 
solecism  of  two  presents^  is  in  a  degree  common  to  all  postage. 
But  if  I  sent  you  word  to  Bath  or  Devizes,  that  I  was  expecting  the 
aforesaid  treat  this  evening,  though  at  the  moment  you  received  the 
intelligence  my  full  feast  of  fun  would  be  over,  yet  there  would  be 
for  a  day  or  two  after,  as  you  would  well  know,  a  smack,  a  relish  left 
upon  my  mental  palate,  which  would  give  rational  encouragement 
for  you  to  foster  a  portion,  at  least,  of  the  disagreeable  passion, 
which  it  was  in  part  my  intention  to  produce.  But  ten  months 
hence,  your  envy  or  your  sympathy  would  be  as  useless  as  a  passion 
spent  upon  the  dead.  Not  only  does  truth,  in  these  long  intervals, 
unessence  herself,  but  (what  is  harder)  one  cannot  venture  a  crude 
fiction,  for  the  fear  that  it  may  ripen  into  a  truth  upon  the  voyage. 
What  a  wild,  improbable  banter  I  put  upon  you  some  three  years 
since  —  of  Will  Weatherall  having  married  a  servant-maid!  I  re- 
member gravely  consulting  you  how  we  were  to  receive  her,  —  for 
Will's  wife  was  in  no  case  to  be  rejected,  —  and  your  no  less  serious 
rephcation  in  the  matter ;  how  tenderly  you  advised  an  abstemious 
introduction  of  literary  topics  before  the  lady,  with  a  caution  not  to 
be  too  forward  in  bringing  on  the  carpet  matters  more  within  the 
sphere  of  her  intelligence  ;  your  deliberate  judgment,  or  rather  wise 
suspension  of  sentence,  how  far  jacks,  and  spits,  and  mops  could 
with  propriety  be  introduced  as  subjects  ;  whether  the  conscious 
avoiding  of  all  such  matters  in  discourse  would  not  have  a  worse 
look  than  the  talking  of  them  casually  in  our  way  ;  in  what  manner 
we  should  carry  ourselves  to  our  maid  Becky,  Mrs.  William  Weath- 
erall being  by  ;  whether  we  should  show  more  delicacy,  and  a  truer 
sense  of  respect  for  Will's  wife,  by  treating  Becky  with  our  custom- 
ary chiding  before  her,  or  by  an  unusual  deferential  civility  paid  to 
Becky  as  to  a  person  of  great  worth,  but  thrown  by  the  caprice  of 
fate  into  a  humble  station.  There  were  difficulties,  I  remember,  on 
both  sides,  which  you  did  me  the  favor  to  state  with  the  precision 
of  a  lawyer,  united  to  the  tenderness  of  a  friend.  I  laug!  ^d  in  my 
sleeve  at  your  solemn  pleadings,  when,  lo  !  while  I  was  va.  Ing  my- 
self upon  this  flam  put  upon  you  in  New  South  Wales,  the  devil  Jn 
England,  jealous  possibly  of  any  lie-children  not  his  own,  or  work- 
ing after  my  copy,  has  actually  instigated  our  friend  (not  three  days 
since)  to  the  commission  of  a  matrimony,  which  I  had  only  conjured 
up  for  your  diversion.  William  Weatherall  has  married  Mrs.  Cot- 
terel's  maid.  But  to  take  it  in  its  truest  sense,  you  will  see,  my  dear 
F.,  that  news  from  me  must  become  history  to  you ;  which  I  neither 


CHARLES    LAMB.  333 

profess  to  write,  nor  indeed  care  much  for  reading.  No  person, 
under  a  diviner,  can  with  any  prospect  of  veracity  conduct  a  corre- 
spondence at  such  an  arm's  length.  Two  prophets,  indeed,  might 
thus  interchange  intelligence  with  effect ;  the  epoch  of  the  writer 
(Habakkuk)  falling  in  with  the  true  present  time  of  the  receiver 
(Daniel) ;  but  then  we  are  no  prophets. 

Then  as  to  sentiment.  It  fares  little  better  with  that.  This  kind 
of  dish,  above  all,  requires  to  be  served  up  hot,  or  sent  off  in  water- 
plates,  that  your  friend  may  have  it  almost  as  warm  as  yourself  If 
it  have  time  to  cool,  it  is  the  most  tasteless  of  all  cold  meats.  I 
have  often  smiled  at  a  conceit  of  the  late  Lord  C.  It  seems  that, 
travelling  somewhere  about  Geneva,  he  came  to  some  pretty  green 
spot,  or  nook,  where  a  willow,  or  something,  hung  so  fantastically 
and  invitingly  over  a  stream, —  was  it?  —  or  a  rock  ?  —  no  matter, 
—  but  the  stillness  and  the  repose,  after  a  weary  journey  'tis  likely, 
in  a  languid  moment  of  his  Lordship's  hot  restless  life,  so  took  his 
fancy  that  he  could  imagine  no  place  so  proper,  in  the  event  of  his 
death,  to  lay  his  bones  in.  This  was  all  very  natural  and  excusable 
as  a  sentiment,  and  shows  his  character  in  a  very  pleasing  light ;  but 
when  from  a  passing  sentiment  it  came  to  be  an  act  ;  and  when,  by 
a  positive  testamentary  disposal,  his  remains  were  actually  carried 
all  that  way  from  England ;  who  was  there,  some  desperate  senti- 
mentalists excepted,  that  did  not  ask  the  question,  Why  could  not 
his  Lordship  have  found  a  spot  as  solitary,  a  nook  as  romantic,  a 
tree  as  green  and  pendent,  with  a  stream  as  emblematic  to  his  pur- 
pose, in  Surrey,  in  Dorset,  or  in  Devon  ?  Conceive  the  sentiment 
boarded  up,  freighted,  entered  at  the  Custom  House  (starthng  the 
tide-waiters  with  the  novelty),  hoisted  into  a  ship.  Conceive  it  pawed 
about  and  handled  between  the  rude  jests  of  tarpaulin  ruffians, — a 
thing  of  its  delicate  texture,  —  the  salt  bilge  wetting  it  till  it  became 
,as  vapid  as  a  damaged  lustring.  Suppose  it  in  material  danger 
(/(mariners  have  some  superstition  about  sentiments)  of  being  tossed 
over  in  a  fresh  gale  to  some  propitiatory  shark  (spirit  of  St.  Got- 
hard,  save  us  from  a  quietus  so  foreign  to  the  deviser's  purpose  ! ) ; 
but  it  has  happily  evaded  a  fishy  consummation.  Trace  it  then  to 
its  lucky  landing — at  Lyons  shall  we  say? — I  have  not  the  map 
before  me  —  jostled  upon  four  men's  shoulders  —  baiting  at  this 
town  —  stopping  to  refresh  at  t'other  village  —  waiting  a  passport 
here,  a  license  there  ;  the  sanction  of  the  magistracy  in  this  district,, 
the  concurrence  of  the  ecclesiastics  in  that  canton  —  till  at  length  it 
arrives  at  its  destination,  tired  out  and  jaded,  from  a  brisk  senti- 


334  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

ment,  into  a  feature  of  silly  pride  or  tawdry,  senseless  affectation. 
How  few  sentiments,  my  dear  F.,  I  am  afraid,  we  can  set  down,  in 
the  sailor's  phrase,  as  quite  sea- worthy  ! 

Lastly,  as  to  the  agreeable  levities,  which,  though  contemptible  in 
bulk,  are  the  twinkling  corpuscula  which  should  irradiate  a  right 
friendly  epistle  —  your  puns  and  small  jests  are,  I  apprehend,  extreme- 
ly circumscribed  in  their  sphere  of  action.  They  are  so  far  from  a 
capacity  of  being  packed  up  and  sent  beyond  sea,  they  will  scarce 
endure  to  be  transported  by  hand  from  this  room  to  the  next.  Their 
vigor  is  as  the  instant  of  their  birth.  Their  nutriment  for  their  brief 
existence  is  the  intellectual  atmosphere  of  the  bystanders.  .  .  . 
A  pun  hath  a  hearty  kind  of  present  ear-kissing  smack  with  it ;  you 
can  no  more  transmit  it  in  its  pristine  flavor  than  you  can  send  a 
kiss.  Have  you  not  tried  in  some  instances  to  palm  off  a  yester- 
day's pun  upon  a  gentleman,  and  has  it  answered  1  Not  but  it  was 
new  to  his  hearing,  but  it  did  not  seem  to  come  new  from  you.  It 
^JiY-^u  '^^^  not  hitch  in.  It  was  like  picking  up  at  a  village  alehouse  a  two- 
.  ^    d^-ys'-old  newspaper.     You  have  not  seen  it  before,  but  you  resent 

^^^^^"^  /  the  stale  thing  as  an  affront.  This  sort  of  merchandise,  above  all, 
^\M,jiy^  'requires  a  quick  return.  A  pun,  and  its  recognitory  laugh,  must  be 
%i}j  f-''''^  coinstantaneous.  The  one  is  the  brisk  lightning,  the  other  the  fierce 
-w-*vi^  ■  ^'  thunder,  A  moment's  interval,  and  the  link  is  snapped.  A  pun  is 
W  ubf^'  reflected  from  a  friend's  face  as  from  a  mirror.  Who  would  consult 
^'  '  >— ^^^  sweet  visnomy  if  the  polished  surface  were  two  or  three  minutes 
n//V^"^      (not  to  speak  of  twelve   months,  my  dear  F.)  in  giving  back  its 

y  to  be  in  the  Hades  of  Thieves.     I  see  Diogenes  prying  among  you 

''^  with  his  perpetual  fruitless  lantern.     What  must  you  be  willing  by 

iM^'^v-'^      this  time  to  give  for  the  sight  of  an  honest  man  !     You  must  almost 

■^iyvX/i^      have  forgotten  how  we  look.     And  tell  me  what  your  Sydneyites 

A   ^         do  ?  are  they  th  .  .  v  .  ng  all  day  long  "i      Merciful  Heaven  !  what 


copy  ? 


I  cannot  image  to  myself  whereabout  you  are.     When  I  try  to  fix 
it,  Teter  Wilkins's  island  comes  across  me.     Sometimes  you  seem 


rir.'SP^ 


'CI 


property  can  stand  against  such  a  depredation  !     The  kangaroos, 


hA/^^^         your  Aborigines,  —  do  they  keep  their  primitive  simplicity  un-Europe- 
^^  *  /  tainted,  with  those  little  short  fore  puds,  looking  like  a  lesson  framed 

by  nature  to  the  pickpocket !     Marry,  for  diving  into  fobs  they  are 
^^  rather  lamely  provided,  a  priori;  but  if  the  hue  and  cry  were  once 

up,  they  would  show  as  fair  a  pair  of  hind-shifters  as  the  expertest 
locomotor  in  the  colony.  We  hear  the  most  improbable  tales  at  this 
distance.     Pray,  is  it  true  that  the  young  Spartans  among  you  are 


CHARLES   LAMB.  335 

born  with  six  fingers,  which  spoils  their  scanning?  It  must  look 
very  odd  ;  but  use  reconciles.  For  their  scansion,  it  is  less  to  be 
regretted,  for  if  they  take  it  into  their  heads  to  be  poets,  it  is  odds 
but  they  turn  out,  the  greater  part  of  them,  vile  plagiarists.  Is  there 
much  difference  to  see,  too,  between  the  son  of  a  th  ,  .  f  and  the 
grandson  .'*  or  where  does  the  taint  stop  ?  Do  you  bleach  in  three 
or  in  four  generations  ?  I  have  many  questions  to  put,  but  ten 
Delphic  voyages  can  be  made  in  a  shorter  time  than  it  will  take  to 
satisfy  my  scruples.  Do  you  grow  your  own  hemp  .''  What  is  your 
staple  trade  —  exclusive  of  the  national  profession,  I  mean?  Your 
locksmiths,  I  take  it,  are  some  of  your  great  capitalists. 

I  am  insensibly  chatting  to  you  as  familiarly  as  when  we  used  to 
exchange  good  morrows  out  of  our  old  contiguous  windows  in  pump- 
famed  Hare  Court  in  the  Temple.  Why  did  you  ever  leave  that 
quiet  corner  ?  Why  did  I  ?  —  with  its  complement  of  four  poor  elms, 
from  whose  smoke-dyed  barks,  the  theme  of  jesting  ruralists,  I 
picked  my  first  lady-birds  !  My  heart  is  as  dry  as  that  spring  some- 
times proves  in  a  thirsty  August,  when  I  revert  to  the  space  that  is 
between  us  —  a  length  of  passage  enough  to  render  obsolete  the 
phrases  of  our  English  letters  before  they  can  reacfi  you.  But 
while  I  talk,  I  think  you  hear  me,  —  thoughts  dallying  with  vain 
surmise,  — 

Aye  me  !  while  thee  the  seas  and  sounding  shores 
Hold  far  away. 

Come  back  before  I  am  grown  into  a  very  old  man,  so  as  you 
shall  hardly  know  me.  Come  before  Bridget  walks  on  crutches. 
Girls  whom  you  left  children  have  become  sage  matrons  while  you 
are  tarrying  there.  The  blooming  Miss  W — r  (you  remember  Sally 
^  (f- I  £iVW — r)  called  upon  us  yesterday,  an  aged  crone.  Folks  whom  you 
'^y n  i  jf^plknew  die  off  every  year.  Formerly  I  thought  that  death  was  wear- 
jiT^n^'  p  ing  out  —  I  stood/  ramparted  about  with  so  many  healthy  friends. 
^^-^rO  "^^^  departure  of(j.  W.,  two  springs  back,  corrected  my  delusion. 
r^f'^  Since  then  the  old  divorcer  has  been  busy.  If  you  do  not  make 
haste  to  return,  there  will  be  little  left  to  greet  you,  of  me,  or  mine. 


[Extracts  from  Blakesmoor.] 

I  DO  not  know  a  pleasure  more  affecting  than  to  range  at  will  over 
the  deserted  apartments  of  some  fine  old  family  mansion.  The  traces 
of  extinct  grandeur  admit  of  a  better  passion  than  envy  ;  and  con- 


/v^' 


336  HAND-BOOK  OF  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

templations  on  the  great  and  good,  whom  we  fancy  in  succession  to 
have  been  its  inhabitants,  weave  for  us  illusions  incompatible  with 
the  bustle  of  modern  occupancy,  and  vanities  of  foolish  present  aris- 
tocracy. The  same  difference  of  feeling,  I  think,  attends  us  between 
entering  an  empty  and  a  crowded  church.  In  the  latter  it  is  chance, 
but  some  present  human  frailty  —  an  act  of  inattention  on  the  part 
of  some  of  the  auditory,  or  a  trait  of  affectation,  or,  worse,  vain- 
glory, on  that  of  the  preacher  —  puts  us  by  our  best  thoughts,  dis- 
harmonizing the  place  and  the  occasion.  But  wouldst  thou  know 
the  beauty  of  holiness  ?  Go  alone,  on  some  week-day,  borrowing 
the  keys  of  good  Master  Sexton  ;  traverse  the  cool  aisles  of  some 
country  church  ;  think  of  the  piety  that  has  kneeled  there,  the  con- 
gregations, old  and  young,  that  have  found  consolation  there,  the 
meek  pastor,  the  docile  parishioner.  With  no  disturbing  emotions, 
no  cross  conflicting  comparisons,  drink  in  the  tranquillity  of  the 
place,  till  thou  thyself  become  as  fixed  and  motionless  as  the  mar- 
ble effigies  that  kneel  and  weep  around  thee. 

Journeying  northward  lately,  I  could  not  resist  going  some  few 
miles  out  of  my  road  to  look  upon  the  remains  of  an  old,  great 
i^Si^y^j  "  .house  with  which  I  had  been  impressed  in  this  way  in  infancy. 
^^.^<>*(/*'»<^^^I  was  apprised  that  the  owner  of  it  had  lately  pulled  it  down  ;  still 
Z^^  '^''  I  had  a  vague  notion  that  it  could  not  all  have  perished ;  that  so 
^^"i  much  solidity  with  magnificence  could  not  have  been  crushed  all  at 

ffdjftj       once  into  the  mere  dust  and  rubbish  which  I  found  it. 
J;  (H^i/y  .7    The  work  of  ruin  had  proceeded  with  a  swift  hand  indeed,  and  the 
^^^^;^/iUmolition  of  a  few  weeks  had  reduced  it  to  —  an  antiquity. 

/j^^^j^  'J/ Why,  every  plank  and  panel  of  that  house,  for  me,  had  magic  in 
TJie  tapestried  bedrooms,  — tapestry  so  much  better  than  paint- 
■;  not  adorning  merely,  but  peopling  the  wainscots, — at  which 
\  -Childhood  ever  and  anon  would  steal  a  look,  shifting  its  coverlet  — 
replaced  as  quickly  —  to  exercise  its  tender  courage  in  a  momentary 
eye-encounter  with  those  stern,  bright  visages,  staring  reciprocally, 
;  all  Ovid  on  the  walls,  in  colors  vivider  than  his  descriptions  — \^c- 
^  ^     taeon  in  mid  sprout,  with  the  unappeasable  prudery  of  Diana,  and 
/     the  still  more  provoking,  and  almost  cuhnary,  coolness  of/Dan  Phoe- 
bus, eel  fashion,  dehberately  divesting  of  Marsyas. 
qA-vi-iy.-.^ 

,■  .la^^jThe  solitude  of  childhood  is  not  so  much  the  mother  of  thought 
as  it  is  the  feeder  of  love,  and  silence,  and  admiration.  So  strange 
a  passion  for  the  place  possessed  me  in  those  years,  that,  though 


WALTER   SAVAGE   LANDOR.  337 

there  lay, -- 1  shame  to  say  how  few  roods  distant  from  the  mansion, 
—  half  hid  by  trees,  what  I  judged  some  romantic  lake,  such  was 
the  spell  which  bound  me  to  the  house,  and  such  my  carefulness  not 
to  pass  its  strict  and  proper  precincts,  that  the  idle  waters  lay  unex- 
plored for  me  ;  and  not  till  late  in  life,  curiosity  prevailing  over  elder 
devotion,  I  found,  to  my  astonishment,  a  pretty,  brawling  brook  had 
been  the  Lacus  Incognitus  of  my  infancy.  Variegated  views,  exten- 
sive prospects,  and  those  at  no  great  distance  from  the  house,  —  I 
was  told  of  such,  —  what  were  they  to  me,  being  out  of  the  bounda- 
ries of  my  Eden  ?  So  far  from  a  wish  to  roam,  I  would  have  drawn, 
methought,  still  closer  the  fences  of  my  chosen  prison,  and  have 
been  hemmed  in  by  a  yet  securer  cincture  of  those  excluding  garden 
walls.     I  could  have  exclaimed  with  that  garden-loving  poet,  — 

[   "  Bind  me,  ye  woodbines,  in  your  twines  ; 
V^  Curl  me  about,  ye  gadding  vines  ; 

And,  O,  so  close  your  circles  lace, 

That  I  may  never  leave  this  place  ; 

But,  lest  your  fetters  prove  too  weak. 

Ere  I  your  silken  bondage  break, 

Do  you,  O  brambles,  chain  me  too, 

And,  courteous  briers,  nail  me  through. "    ! 


WALTER   SAVAGE   LANDOR. 

falter  Savage  Landor  was  born  in  Warwickshire  in  1775.  He  was  educated  at  Rugby, 
VV<>^-^  and  afterwards  at  Oxford.  He  inherited  a  fortune,  and  was  able  to  gratify  his  tastes  for  lit- 
/7  .  I  \'-}-^  erature,  and  to  live  on  the  Continent,  without  following  any  profession.  He  had  a  powerful 
intellect,  equal,  in  many  respects,  to  that  of  any  modern  writer ;  but  his  impulsive  nature 
and  lack  of  judgment  were  painfully  conspicuous  through  life.  He  is  said  to  have  been  the 
original  of  Dickens's  brusque  character,  Boythorti,  in  "Bleak  House."  His  scholarship 
was  remarkable  both  for  extent  and  accuracy  ;  so  that  none  of  his  writings  are  destitute  of 
interest ;  but  his  poetry  simply  consists  of  vigorous  and  correct  verses,  without  inspiration, 
and  his  fame  must  rest  on  his  prose.  His  chief  work,  the  Imaginary  Conversations,  ranges 
>  over  all  the  fields  of  thought  and  of  history,  and  contains  far  more  of  wisdom,  eloquence, 
imagination,  apt  allusion,  acute,  critical  analysis,  and  splendor  of  style,  than  have  sufficed 
for  many  more  famous  books.  He  wrote  for  scholars,  however,  and  not  for  the  public.  His 
works  were  published  in  two  large  volumes,  in  London,  under  the  care  of  John  Forster  and 
Professor  Hare,  while  he  lived  abroad.  His  last  publication,  written  after  the  age  of  eighty, 
contained  some  libellous  passages,  for  which  he  was  compelled  to  pay  heavy  damages.  It 
would  have  been  better  for  his  reputation  if  he  had  left  the  world  some  years  earlier. 

He  died  at  Florence,  in  1868.     A  selection  of  striking  passages  from   Landor's  works, 
made  by  Mr.  Hillard  of  Boston,  will  give  a  good  idea  of  the  author's  varied  powers. 

[From  the  Imaginary  Conversations.] 

Since  the  time  of  Chaucer,  there  have  been  only  two  poets  who 
at  all  resemble  him  ;  and  these  two  are  widely  dissimilar  one  from 


^, 


J^c/^^^d-C-f/'M  -vvf-, 


338  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

the  other  — Burns  and  Keats.  The  accuracy  and  truth  with  which 
Chaucer  has  described  the  manners  of  common  hfe,  with  the  fore- 
ground and  background,  are  also  to  be  found  in  Burns,  who  delights 
in  broader  strokes  of  external  nature,  but  equally  appropriate.  He 
has  parts  of  genius  which  Chaucer  has  not  in  the  same  degree  —  the 
animated  and  pathetic.  Keats,  in  his  Endymion,  is  richer  in  imagery 
than  either ;  and  there  are  passages  in  which  no  poet  has  arrived  at 
the  same  excellence  on  the  same  ground.  Time  alone  was  wanting 
to  complete  a  poet  who  already  far  surpassed  all  his  contemporaries 
in  this  country  in  the  poet's  most  noble  attributes.  If  anything  could 
engage  me  to  visit  Rome,  to  endure  the  sight  of  her  scarred  and 
awful  ruins,  telling  their  stories  on  the  ground,  in  the  midst  of  bell- 
ringers  and  pantomimes  ;  if  I  could  let  charnel-houses  and  opera- 
houses,  consuls  and  popes,  tribunes  and  cardinals,  senatorial  orators 
and  preaching  friars,  clash  in  my  mind,  it  would  be  that  I  might  af- 
terwards spend  an  hour  in  solitude,  where  the  pyramid  of  Cestius 
stands  against  the  wall,  and  points  to  the  humbler  tombs  of  Keats 
and  Shelley.  Nothing  so  attracts  my  heart  as  ruins  in  deserts,  or  so 
repels  it  as  ruins  in  the  circle  of  fashion.  What  is  so  shocking  as 
the  hard  verity  of  Death  swept  by  the  rustling  masquerade  of  Life  ! 
And  does  not  Mortality  of  herself  teach  us  how  little  we  are,  without 
placing  us  amid  the  trivialties  of  patch-work  pomp,  where  Virgil  led 
gods  to  found  an  empire,  where  Cicero  and  Caesar  shook  the  world .'' 

Landor. 


There  is  as  great  a  difference  between  Shakespeare  and  Bacon  as 
between  an  American  forest  and  a  London  timber-yard.  In  the  tim- 
ber-yard, the  materials  are  sawed,  and  squared,  and  set  across  ;  in 
the  forest,  we  have  the  natural  form  of  the  tree,  all  its  growth,  all  its 
branches,  all  its  leaves,  all  the  mosses  that  grow  about  it,  all  the  birds 
and  insects  that  inhabit  it ;  now  deep  shadows  absorbing  the  whole 
wilderness  ;  now,  bright  bursting  glades,  with  exuberant  grass,  and 
flowers,  and  fruitage  ;  now,  untroubled  skies  ;  now,  terrific  thunder- 
storms ;  everywhere  multiformity,  everywhere  immensity. 

SOUTHEY. 


CowPER  plays  in  the  playground,  and  not  in  the  churchyard. 
Nothing  of  his  is  out  of  place  or  out  of  season.  He  possessed  a  rich 
vein  of  ridicule  ;  but  he  turned  it  to  good  account,  opening  it  on  prig 
parsons,  and  graver  and  worse  impostors.     He  was  ameng  the  first 


WALTER   SAVAGE   LANDOR.  339 

to  put  to  flight  the  mischievous  little  imps  of  allegory,  so  cherished 
and  fondled  by  the  Wartons.  They  are  as  bad  in  poetry  as  mice  in 
a  cheese-room.  You  poets  are  still  rather  too  fond  of  the  unsubstan- 
tial. Some  will  have  nothing  else  than  what  they  call  pure  imagina- 
tion. Now,  air-plants  ought  not  to  fill  the  whole  conservatory  ;  other 
plants,  I  would  mode3tly  suggest,  are  worth  cultivating,  which  send 
their  roots  pretty  deep  into  the  ground.  I  hate  both  poetry  and  wine 
without  body.  Look  at  Shakespeare,  Bacon,  and  Milton  ;  were  these 
your  pure  imagination-men  ?  The  least  of  them,  whichever  it  was, 
carried  a  jewel  of  poetry  about  him  worth  all  his  tribe  that  came 
after.  Did  the  two  of  them  who  wrote  in  verse  build  upon  nothing  ? 
Did  their  predecessors  ?  And,  pray,  whose  daughter  was  the  Muse 
they  invoked  ?  Why,  Memory's.  They  stood  among  substantial 
men.  and  sang  upon  recorded  actions.  The  plain  of  Scamander,  the 
promontory  of  Sigaeum,  the  palaces  of  Tros  and  Dardanus,  the  cita- 
del in  whicji  the  Fates  sang  mournfully  under  the  image  of  Minerva, 
seem  fitter  places  for  the  Muses  to  alight  on,  than  artificial  rock- work 
or  than  fairy-rings.  But  your  great  favorite,  I  hear,  is  Spenser,  who 
shines  in  allegory,  and  who,  like  an  aerolithe,  is  dull  and  heavy  when 
he  descends  to  the  ground.  PORSON. 


I  AM  persuaded  of  the  truth  in  what  I  have  spoken,  and  yet  —  ah, 
^  Quinctus  !  there  is  a  tear  that  Philosophy  cannot  dry,  and  a  pang 
that  will  rise  as  we  approach  the  gods. 

Two  things  tend  beyond  all  others,  after  philosophy,  to  inhibit  and 
check  our  ruder  passions  as  they  grow  and  swell  in  us,  and  to  keep 
our  gentler  in  their  proper  play  ;  and  these  two  things  are,  seasona- 
ble sorrow  and  inoffensive  pleasure,  each  moderately  indulged.  Nay, 
there  is  also  a  pleasure,  humble,  it  is  true,  but  graceful  and  insinuat- 
ing, which  follows  close  upon  our  very  sorrows,  reconciles  us  to  them 
gradually,  and  sometimes  renders  us,  at  last,  undesirous  altogether 
of  abandoning  them.  If  ever  you  have  remembered  the  anniversary 
of  some  day  whereon  a  dear  friend  was  lost  to  you,  tell  me  whether 
that  anniversary  was  not  purer  and  even  calmer  than  the  day  before. 
The  sorrow,  if  there  should  be  any  left,  is  soon  absorbed,  and  full 
satisfaction  takes  place  of  it,  while  you  perform  a  pious  office  to  Friend- 
ship, required  and  appointed  by  the  ordinances  of  Nature.  When  my 
Tulliola  was  torn  away  from  me,  a  thousand  plans  were  in  readiness 
for  immortalizing  her  memory,  and  raising  a  monument  up  to  the 
magnitude  of  my  grief.     The  grief  itself  has  done  it ;    the  tears  I 


340  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

then  shed  over  her  assuaged  it  in  me,  and  did  everything  that  could 
be  done  for  her,  or  hoped,  or  wished.  I  called  upon  Tulliola  :  Rome 
and  the  whole  world  heard  me.  Her  glory  was  a  part  of  mine,  and 
mine  of  hers,  and  when  Eternity  had  received  her  at  my  hands,  I 
wept  no  longer.  The  tenderness  wherewith  I  mentioned,  and  now 
mention  her,  though  it  suspends  my  voice,  brings  what  consoles  and 
comforts  me  ;  it  is  the  milk  and  honey  left  at  the  sepulchre,  and  equally 
sweet,  I  hope,  to  the  departed. 

\  The  gods,  who  have  given  us  our  affections,  permit  us  rarely  the 
uses  and  the  signs  of  them.  Immoderate  grief,  like  everything  else 
immoderate,  is  useless  and  pernicious  ;  but  if  we  did  not  tolerate  and 
endure  it ;  if  we  did  not  prepare  for  it,  meet  it,  commune  with  it ; 
if  we  did  not  even  cherish  it  in  its  season, —  much  of  what  is  best  in 
our  faculties,  much  of  our  tenderness,  much  of  our  generosity,  much 
of  our  patriotism,  much,  also,  of  our  genius,  would  be  stifled  and  ex- 
tinguishedj 

When  I  hear  any  one  call  upon  another  to  be  manly  and  restrain 
his  tears,  if  they  flow  from  the  social  and  the  kind  affections,  I  doubt 
the  humanity  and  distrust  the  wisdom  of  the  counsellor.  Were  he 
humane,  he  would  be  more  inclined  to  pity  and  to  sympathize  than 
to  lecture  and  reprove ;  and  were  he  wise,  he  would  consider  that 
tears  are  given  us  by  nature  as  a  remedy  to  affliction,  although,  like 
other  remedies,  they  should  come  to  our  relief  in  private.  Philoso- 
phy, we  may  be  told,  would  prevent  the  tears,  by  turning  away  the 
sources  of  them,  and  by  raising  up  a  rampart  against  pain  and  sor- 
row. I  am  of  opinion  that  Philosophy,  quite  pure,  and  totally  ab- 
stracted from  our  appetites  and  passions,  instead  of  serving  us  the 
better,  would  do  us  little  or  no  good  at  all.  We  may  receive  so  much 
light  as  not  to  see,  and  so  much  philosophy  as  to  be  worse  than 
foolish.  Cicero. 


THOMAS    CAMPBELL. 

Thomas  Campbell  was  bom  in  Glasgow  in  1777,  and  was  educated  at  the  university  of  hii 
native  city.  His  poetical  talents  were  manifested  in  his  college  exercises,  and  his  first  poem, 
The  Pleasures  of  Hope,  was  written  in  his  twenty-first  year.  He  sold  the  manuscript  for 
sixty  pounds ;  but  the  success  of  the  poem  was  so  great  that  the  publishers  paid  him  fifty 
pounds  for  each  of  the  many  editions,  besides  allowing  him  to  issue  a  handsome  subscription 
copy,  by  which  he  gained  a  large  sum.  He  visited  Germany  in  1800,  and  saw  the  taking  of 
Ratisbon  by  the  French.  Many  observers  have  wi;nessed  artillery  firing  and  cavalry 
charges,  but  only  one  has  painted  them  in  a  scene  like  Hohenlinden.  This  well-known 
poem,  however,   as  well   as  the  equally  famous  Lochiel,  was  written  at  the  seat  of  Lord 


THOMAS   CAMPBELL. 


341 


Minto  in  Scotland ;  and  both  were  revised  by  a  chance  visitor,  Walter  Scott.  Scott  greatly 
admired  both  poems,  but  Campbell  said  he  did  not  think  very  highly  of  Hohenlinden : 
"some  of  the  verses  were  only  drum  and  trumpet  lilies^  In  these  productions  as  well  as 
in  his  grand  naval  odes,  and  in  his  passionate  allusions  to  the  fall  of  Poland,  Campbell 
shows  his  ardent  and  generous  nature  no  less  than  his  poetic  fire.  His  poems  are  not  very 
numerous,  and  from  various  circumstances  it  is  pretty  certain  that  he  wrote  slowly,  if  not 
with  difficulty.  They  are  also  quite  unequal  in  merit ;  Theodoric,  and  The  Pilgrim  of 
Glencoe,  are  notably  inferior.  His  shorter  pieces  will  survive  ;  the  more  ambitious  efforts 
will  have  a  safe  asylum  and  respectful  mention  in  the  cyclopaedias.  During  a  long  literary 
life  he  had  a  plenty  of  lucrative  employment ;  other  resources  were  not  wanting,  such  as  a 
pension  from  the  king  of  two  hundred  pounds,  and  a  couple  of  substantial  legacies ;  but 
nothing  short  of  the  purse  of  Fortunatus  could  have  kept  such  a  generous  and  improvident 
man  from  occasional  want.  Indeed,  his  pecuniary  troubles  increased  with  his  resources,  as 
in  the  case  of  many  an  author  since.  But  he  was  honest ;  if  he  borrowed,  he  paid  ;  and  his 
pension  and  his  legacies  were  religiously  shared  with  his  parents  and  family. 

Besides  his  poems  he  published  Specimens  of  the  British  Poets  in  seven  volumes,  and  a 
Life  of  Mrs.  Siddons.  He  was  for  some  time  editor  of  Colbnm's  New  Monthly.  He  first 
suggested  the  establishment  of  the  University  of  London,  and  labored  for  it  zealously.  Of 
all  his  honors  he  was  most  proud  of  being  chosen  Rector  of  the  University  of  Glasgow  by  the 
free  suffrages  of  the  students  ;  he  filled  the  place  with  great  ability  for  several  years.  He  was 
happily  married,  but  he  survived  his  wife,  and  left  only  an  imbecile  heir  to  his  name.  Ho 
died  at  Boulogne  in  1844.     His  remains  were  interred  in  Westminster  Abbey. 

THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  BALTIC. 


I. 

Of  Nelson  and  the  North, 

Sing  the  glorious  day's  renown, 

When  to  battle  fierce  came  forth 

All  the  might  of  Denmark's  crown, 

And  her  arms  along  the  deep  proudly  shone  ; 

By  each  gun  the  lighted  brand, 

In  a  bold,  determined  hand, 

And  the  Prince  of  all  the  land 

Led  them  on. 


Like  leviathans  afloat, 

Lay  their  bulwarks  on  the  brine  ; 

While  the  sign  of  battle  flew 

On  the  lofty  British  line  : 

It  was  ten  of  April  morn  by  the  chime : 

As  they  drifted  on  their  path. 

There  was  silence  deep  as  death, 

And  the  boldest  held  his  breath 

For  a  time. 


But  the  might  of  England  flushed 
To  anticipate  the  scene  ; 
And  her  van  the  fleeter  rushed 
O'er  the  deadly  space  between. 
"  Hearts  of  oak  ! "  our  captains  cried ;  when 
each  gun 


From  its  adamantine  lips 

Spread  a  death-shade  round  the  ships, 

Like  the  hurricane  eclipse 

Of  the  sun. 


Again  !  again  !  again  ! 

And  the  havoc  did  not  slack. 

Till  a  feeble  cheer  the  Dane 

To  our  cheering  sent  us  back  : 

Their  shots  along  the  deep  slowly  boom  ; 

Then  ceased  —  and  all  is  wail, 

As  they  strike  the  shattered  sail. 

Or,  in  conflagration  pale, 

Light  the  gloom. 


Out  spoke  the  victor  then, 

As  he  hailed  them  o'er  the  wave : 

'*  Ye  are  brothers  !  ye  are  men  ! 

And  we  conquer  but  to  save  ; 

So  peace  instead  of  death  let  us  bring  ; 

But  yield,  proud  foe,  thy  fleet, 

With  the  crews,  at  England's  feet, 

And  make  submission  meet 

To  our  king." 


Then  Denmark  blessed  our  chief. 
That  he  gave  her  wounds  repose ; 


342                          HAND-BOOK   OF  ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

And  the  sounds  of  joy  and  grief  Full  many  a  fathom  deep, 

From  her  people  wildly  rose,  By  thy  wild  and  stormy  steep, 

As  death  withdrew  his  shades  from  the  day.        Elsinore  ! 

While  the  sun  looked  smiling  bright 

O'er  a  wide  and  woful  sight,  viii. 

Where  the  fires  of  funeral  light  Brave  hearts  !  to  Britain's  pride 

Died  away.  Once  so  faithful  and  so  true, 

On  the  deck  of  fame  that  died  ; 

V"-  With  the  gallant  good  Riou  ; 

Now  joy,  Old  England,  raise  !  Soft  sigh  the  winds  of  Heaven  o'er  their  grave! 

For  the  tidings  of  thy  might,  While  the  billow  mournful  rolls 

By  the  festal  cities'  blaze,  And  the  mermaid's  song  condoles* 

Whilst  the  wine-cup  shines  in  light  ;  Singing  glory  to  the  souls 

And  yet  amidst  that  joy  and  uproar.  Of  the  brave. 
Let  u%  think  of  them  that  sleep. 


LOCHIEL'S   WARNING. 

WIZARD—  LOCHIEU 

Wizard.    Lochiel,  Lochiel,  beware  of  the  day 
When  the  Lowlands  shall  meet  thee  in  battle  array  ; 
For  a  field  of  the  dead  rushes  red  on  my  sight,  # 

And  the  clans  of  Culloden  are  scattered  in  fight. 
They  rally,  they  bleed,  for  their  kingdom  and  crown ; 
Woe,  woe  to  the  riders  that  trample  them  down. 
Proud  Cumberland  prances,  insulting  the  slain, 
And  their  hoof-beaten  bosoms  are  trod  to  the  plain. 
But  hark !  through  the  fast-flashing  lightning  of  war, 
What  steed  to  the  desert  flies  frantic  and  far  ? 
'Tis  thine,  O  Glenullin,  whose  bride  shall  await, 
Like  a  love-lighted  watch-fire,  all  night  at  the  gate. 
A  steed  comes  at  morning  :  no  rider  is  there  ; 
But  its  bridle  is  red  with  the  sign  of  despair. 
Weep,  Albin,  to  death  and  captivity  led  — 
O,  weep  ;  but  thy  tears  cannot  number  the  dead  ; 
For  a  merciless  sword  on  Culloden  shall  wave  — 
Culloden,  that  reeks  with  the  blood  of  the  bravfe. 

Lochiel.    Go,  preach  to  the  coward,  thou  death-telling  seer  ; 
Or,  if  gory  Culloden  so  dreadful  appear. 
Draw,  dotard,  around  thy  old,  wavering  sight 
This  mantle,  to  cover  the  phantoms  of  fright. 

Wiz.    Ha  !  laugh'st  thou,  Lochiel,  my  vision  to  scorn  ? 
Proud  bird  of  the  mountain,  thy  plume  shall  be  torn. 


THOMAS   CAMPBELL.  343 

Say,  rushed  the  bold  eagle  exultingly  forth 
From  his  home  in  the  dark-rolling  clouds  of  the  north  ? 
Lo,  the  death-shot  of  foemen  outspeeding,  he  rode 
Companionless,  bearing  destruction  abroad  ; 
But  down  let  him  stoop  from  his  havoc  on  high, 
Ah,  home  let  him  speed;  for  the  spoiler  is  nigh. 
Why  flames  the  far  summit  ?     Why  shoot  to  the  blast 
Those  embers,  like  stars  from  the  firmament  cast  ? 
'Tis  the  fire-shower  of  ruin,  all  dreadfully  driven 
From  his  eyrie,  that  beacons  the  darkness  of  heaven. 
O,  crested  Lochiel,  the  peerless  in  might, 
Whose  banners  arise  on  the  battlements'  height, 
Heaven's  fire  is  around  thee,  to  blast  and  to  burn. 
Return  to  thy  dwelling,  all  lonely  return  ; 
For  the  blackness  of  ashes  shall  mark  where  it  stood, 
And  a  wild  mother  scream  o'er  her  famishing  brood. 

Loc.    False  wizard,  avaunt  !     I  have  marshalled  my  clan  ; 
Their  swords  are  a  thousand,  their  bosoms  are  one  ; 
They  are  true  to  the  last  of  their  blood  and  their  breath, 
And,  like  reapers,  descend  to  the  harvest  of  death. 
Then,  welcome  be  Cumberland's  steed  to  the  shock  ; 
Let  him  dash  his  proud  foam  like  a  wave  on  the  rock  ; 
But  woe  to  his  kindred,  and  woe  to  his  cause. 
When  Albin  her  claymore  indignantly  draws  ; 
When  her  bonneted  chieftains  to  victory  crowd  — 
Clanronald  the  dauntless,  and  Moray  the  proud, 
All  plaided  and  plumed  in  their  tartan  array. 

Wiz.    Lochiel,  Lochiel,  beware  of  the  day  ; 
For,  dark  and  despairing,  my  sight  I  may  seal. 
But  man  cannot  cover  what  God  would  reveal. 
'Tis  the  sunset  of  life  gives  me  mystical  lore. 
And  coming  events  cast  their  shadows  before. 
I  tell  thee  Culloden's  dread  echoes  shall  ring 
With  the  bloodhounds  that  bark  for  thy  fugitive  king. 
Lo,  anointed  by  Heaven  with  the  vials  of  wrath. 
Behold  where  he  flies  on  his  desolate  path. 
Now,  in  darkness  and  billows,  he  sweeps  from  my  sight  ; 
Rise,  rise,  ye  wild  tempests,  and  cover  his  flight. 
'Tis  finished.     Their  thunders  are  hushed  on  the  moors  ; 
Culloden  is  lost,  and  my  country  deplores. 
But  where  is  the  iron-bound  prisoner  ?  where  ? 


344  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

For  the  red  eye  of  battle  is  shut  in  despair. 

Say,  mounts  he  the  ocean  wave,  banished,  forlorn, 

Like  a  limb  from  his  country  cast  bleeding  and  torn  ? 

Ah,  no  ;  for  a  darker  departure  is  near  : 

The  war-drum  is  muffled,  and  black  is  the  bier  ; 

His  death-bell  is  toUing.     O,  mercy !  dispel 

Yon  sight  that  it  freezes  my  spirit  to  tell. 

Life  flutters  convulsed  in  his  quivering  limbs, 

And  his  blood-streaming  nostril  in  agony  swims. 

Accursed  be  the  fagots  that  blaze  at  his  feet. 

Where  his  heart  shall  be  thrown  ere  it  ceases  to  beat, 

With  the  smoke  of  its  ashes  to  poison  the  gale  — 

Loc.    Down,  soothless  insulter  !    I  trust  not  the  tale  ; 
For  never  shall  Albin  a  destiny  meet 
So  black  with  dishonor,  so  foul  with  retreat. 
Though  my  perishing  ranks  should  be  strewed  in  their  gore, 
Like  ocean-weeds  heaped  on  the  surf-beaten  shore, 
Lochiel,  untainted  by  flight  or  by  chains. 
While  the  kindling  of  life  in  his  bosom  remains, 
Shall  victor  exult,  or  in  death  be  laid  low. 
With  his  back  to  the  field,  and  his  feet  to  the  foe, 
And,  leaving  in  battle  no  blot  on  his  name. 
Look. proudly  to  Heaven  from  the  death-bed  of  fame. 


THE   soldier's   DREAM. 

Our  bugles  sang  truce,  for  the  night-cloud  had  lowered, 
And  the  sentinel  stars  set  their  watch  in  the  sky  ; 

And  thousands  had  sunk  on  the  ground  overpowered, 
The  weary  to  sleep,  and  the  wounded  to  die. 

When  reposing,  that  night,  on  my  pallet  of  straw, 
By  the  wolf-scaring  fagot  that  guarded  the  slain, 

At  the  dead  of  the  night  a  sweet  vision  I  saw, 
And  thrice,  ere  the  morning,  I  dreamt  it  again. 

Methought  from  the  battle-field's  dreadful  array 
Far,  far  I  had  roamed  on  a  desolate  track. 

'Twas  autumn,  and  sunshine  arose  on  the  way 
To  the  home  of  my  fathers,  that  welcomed  me  back. 


THOMAS    CAMPBELL. 


345 


I  flew  to  the  pleasant  fields  traversed  so  oft 

In  life's  morning  march,  when  my  bosom  was  young  ; 

I  heard  my  own  mountain  goats  bleating  aloft, 

And  knew  the  sweet  strain  that  the  corn-reapers  sung. 

Then  pledged  we  the  wine-cup,  and  fondly  I  swore 
From  my  home  and  my  weeping  friends  never  to  part ; 

My  little  ones  kissed  me  a  thousand  times  o'er, 
And  my  wife  sobbed  aloud,  in  her  fullness  of  heart. 

Stay,  stay  with  us.     Rest ;  thou  art  weary  and  worn  ! 

And  fain  was  their  war-broken  soldier  to  stay ; 
But  sorrow  returned  with  the  dawning  of  morn, 

And  the  voice  in  my  dreaming  ear  melted  away. 


VALEDICTORY   STANZAS   TO  J.    P.    KEMBLE,    ESQ. 

COMPOSED   FOR   A    PUBLIC   MEETING   HELD  JUNE,   1817. 


Pride  of  the  British  stage, 

A  long  and  last  adieu  ! 
Whose  image  brought  the  heroic  age 

Revived  to  Fancy's  view. 
Like  fields  refreshed  with  dewy  light 

When  the  sun  smiles  his  last, 
Thy    parting    presence    makes    more 
bright 

Our  memory  of  the  past ; 
And  memory  conjures  feelings  up 

That  wine  or  music  need  not  swell. 
As  high  we  lift  the  festal  cup 

To  Kemble  —  fare  thee  well. 

His  was  the  spell  o'er  hearts 

Which  only  Acting  lends  — 
The  youngest  of  the  sister  arts, 

Where  all  their  beauty  blends  ; 
For  ill  can  Poetry  express 

Full  many  a  tone  of  thought  sublime, 
And  Painting,  mute  and  motionless. 

Steals  but  a  glance  of  time. 
But,  by  the  mighty  actor  brought. 

Illusion's  perfect  triumphs  come  — 
Verse  ceases  to  be  airy  thought, 

And  Sculpture  to  be  dumb. 


Time  may  again  revive. 

But  ne'er  eclipse,  the  charm  > 

When  Cato  spoke  in  him  alive, 

Or  Hotspur  kindled  warm. 
What  soul  was  not  resigned  entire 

To  the  deep  sorrows  of  the  Moor? 
What  English  heart  was  not  on  fire 

With  him  at  Agincourt  ? 
And  yet  a  majesty  possessed 

His  transport's  most  impetuous  tone, 
And  to  each  passion  of  the  breast 

The  Graces  give  their  zone. 

High  were  the  task  —  too  high. 

Ye  conscious  bosoms  here, 
In  words  to  paint  your  memory 

Of  Kemble  and  of  Lear ; 
But  who  forgets  that  white,  discrowned  head. 

Those  bursts  of  Reason's  half-distinguished 
glare. 
Those  tears  upon  Cordelia's  bosom  shed, 

In  doubt  more  touching  than  despair, 
If  'twas  reality  lie  felt  ? 

Had  Shakespeare's  self  amidst  you  been. 
Friends,  he  had  seep  you  melt, 

And  triumphed  to  ha^e  seen. 


346  HA^^DaBOOK   OF  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 


'  '       ^46  HA^^DaBOOK   OF  ENGLISH   LITERATURE.     (\ 


'Wl^  ^^^^tdk^AZi^  "X 


'J^'^"' 


^' 


''  William  Hazlitt-was  born  in  Shropshire  in  1778,  the  son  of  a  Unitarian  clergymStf.  He 
first  attempted  painting,  but  afterwards  turned  his  attention  to  literary  and  artistic  Criticism, 
and  lived  by  his  contributions  to  journals  and  reviews.  His  style  is  forcible  and  often 
picturesque  ;  but  he  frequently  fails  to  carry  conviction,  from  his  want  of  moderation  and 
judgment.  The  first  specimen  here  printed  furnishes  a  case  in  point.  The  doctrine  has  a 
certain  truth,  but  is  not  wholly  true  ;  the  lesson  of  the  article  is  a  useful  one,  but  the  state- 
ments must  be  received  with  grains  of  allowance.  His  best  known  works  are  Table  Talk,  in 
two  volumes,  and  The  Round  Table.  He  wrote  also  an  elaborate  Life  of  Napoleon,  in  four 
volumes  ;  A  View  of  the  English  Stage  ;  Lectures  on  the  English  Poets,  and  on  the  Eliza- 
bethan Age ;  Characters  of  Shakespeare's  Plays,  and  many  other  treatises.  They  are  all 
distinguished  by  great  critical  ability,  and  have  been  collected  in  a  series  of  volumes,  edited 
by  his  son.  He  died  in  1830.  An  edition  of  his  miscellaneous  essays,  &c.,  was  published  in 
five  volumes,  Philadelphia,  1848. 

■  Jf<^     ON  THE  IGNORANCE  OF  THE  LEARNED. 

Li-^C>  [From  Table  Talk.] 

You  might  as  well  ask  the  paralytic  to  leap  from  his  chair  and  throw 
away  his  crutch,  or,  without  a  miracle,  "to  take  up  his  bed  and 
•  \afalk,"  as  expect  the  learned  reader  to  lay  down  his  book  and  think 
for  himself.  He  clings  to  it  for  his  intellectual  support ;  and  his 
U\^<;/dread  of  being  left  to  himself  is  like  the  horror  of  a  vacuum.  He 
-^uft^tyuj  c^J^  o^ly  brealhe  a  learned  atmosphere,  as  other  men  breathe  com- 
.^  ^  /  mon  air.     He  is  a  borrower  of  sense.     He  has  no  ideas  of  his  own, 

and  must  live  on  those  of  other  people.  The  habit  of  supplying  our 
itieas  from  foreign  sources  "  enfeebles  all  internal  strength  of  thought," 
.  :  as  a  course  of  dram-drinking  destroys  the  tone  of  the  stomach.  The 
faculties  of  the  mind,  when  not  exerted,  or  when  cramped  by  custom 
and  authority,  become  listless,  torpid,  and  unfit  for  the  purposes  of 
thought  or  action.  Can  we  wonder  at  the  languor  and  lassitude 
.'  whiph  is  thus  produced  by  a  life  of  learned  sloth  and  ignorance,  by 
poring  over  hnes  and  syllables  that  excite  little  more  idea  or  interest 
than  if  they  were  the  characters  of  an  unknown  tongue,  till  the  eye 
closes  on  vacancy,  and  the  book  drops  from  the  feeble  hand  ?  I 
would  rather  be  a  wood-cutter,  or  the  meanest  hind,  that  all  day 
"  sweats  in  the  eye  of  Phoebus,  and  at  night  sleeps  in  Elysium," 
than  wear  out  my  life  so,  'twixt  dreaming  and  awake.  The  learned 
author  differs  from  the  learned  student  in  this  —  that  the  one  tran- 
scribes what  the  other  reads.  The  learned  are  mere  literary  drudges. 
If  ybu  set  them  upon  original  composition,  their  heads  turn,  they 
know  not  where  they  are.  The  indefatigable  readers  of  books  are 
like  the  everlasting  copiers  of  pictures,  who,  when  they  attempt  to 


WILLIAM   HAZLITT.  347 

do  anything  of  their  own,  find  they  want  an  eye  quick  enough,  a 
hand  steady  enough,  and  colors  bright  enough,  to  trace  the  hving 
forms  of  nature.  Any  one  who  has  passed  through  the  regular 
gradations  of  a  classical  education,  and  is  not  made  a  fool  "by  it,  may 
consider  himself  as  having  had  a  very  narrow  escape.  It  is  an  old 
remark,  that  boys  who  shine  at  school  do  not  make  the  greatest 
figure  when  they  grow  up  and  come  out  into  the  world.  The  things, 
in  fact,  which  a  boy  is  set  to  learn  at  school,  and  on  which  his 
success  depends,  are  things  which  do  not  require  the  exercise  either 
of  the  highest  or  the  most  useful  faculties  of  the  mind.  Memory 
(and  that  of  the  lowest  kind)  is  the  chief  faculty  called  into  play,  in 
conning  over  and  repeating  lessons  by  rote  in  grammar,  in  languages, 
in  geography,  arithmetic,  &c.,  so  that  he  who  has  the  most  of  this 
technical  memory,  with  the  least  turn  for  other  things,  which  have  a 
stronger  and  more  natural  claim  upon  his  childish  attention,  will 
make  the  most  forward  school-boy 

A  mere  scholar,  who  knows  nothing  but  books,  must  be  ignorant 
even  of  them.  . "  Books  do  not  teach  the  use  of  books."  How  should 
he  know  anything  of  a  work,  who  knows  nothing  of  the  subject  of  it  ? 
The  learned  pedant  is  conversant  with  books  only  as  they  are  made 
of  other  books,  and  those  again  of  others,  without  end.  He  parrots 
those  who  have  parroted  others.  He  can  translate  the  same  word 
into  ten  different  languages,  but  he  knows  nothing  of  the  M/;/^^  which 
it  means  in  any  one  of  them.  He  stuffs  his  head  with  authorities 
built  on  authorities,  with  quotations  quoted  from  quotations,  while 
he  locks  up  his  senses,  his  understanding,  and  his  heart.  He  is  un- 
acquainted with  the  maxims  and  manners  of  the  world  ;  he  is  to 
seek  in  the  characters  of  individuals.  He  sees  no  beauty  in  the  face 
of  nature  or  of  art.  To  him  "  the  mighty  world  of  eye  and  ear  "  is 
hid  ;  and  "knowledge,  except  at  one  entrance,  quite  shut  out."  His 
pride  takes  part  with  his  ignorance  ;  and  his  self-importance  rises 
with  the  number  of  things  of  which  he  does  not  know  the  value,  and 
which  he  therefore  despises  as  unworthy  of  his  notice. 

Women  have  often  more  of  what  is  called  good  sense  than  men. 
They  have  fewer  pretensions,  are  less  implicated  in  theories,  and 
judge  of  objects  more  from  their  immediate  and  involuntary  impres- 
sion on  the  mind,  and,  therefore,  more  truly  and  naturally.  They 
cannot  reason  wrong  ;  for  they  do  not  reason  at  all.  They  do  not 
think  or  speak  by  rule,  and  they  have  in  general  more  eloquence 
and  wit,  as  well  as  sense,  on  that  account.  By  their  wit,  sense,  and 
eloquence  together,  they  generally  contrive  to  govern  their  husbands. 


348  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

Their  style,  when  they  write  to  their  friends  (not  for  the  booksellers), 
is  better  than  that  of  most  authors. 

Uneducated  people  have  most  exuberance  of  invention,  and  the 
greatest  freedom  from  prejudice.  Shakespeare's  was  evidently  an 
uneducated  mind,  both  in  the  freshness  of  his  imagination  and  in 
the  variety  of  his  views,  as  Milton's  was  scholastic  in  the  texture 
both  of  his*  thoughts  and  feelings.  Shakespeare  had  not  been 
accustomed  to  write  themes  at  school  in  favor  of  virtue  or  against 
vice.  To  this  we  owe  the  unaffected  but  healthy  tone  of  his 
dramatic  morality.  If  we  wish  to  know  the  force  of  human  genius, 
we  should  read  Shakespeare.  If  we  wish  to  see  the  insignificance 
of  human  learning,  we  may  study  his  commentators. 


ON    "COMMONPLACE   CRITICS." 
(Trom  Round  Table.] 

A  COMMONPLACE  critic  has  something  to  say  upon  every  occasion  ; 
and  he  always  tells  you  either  what  is  not  true,  or  what  you  knew 
before,  or  what  is  not  worth  knowing.  He  is  a  person  who  thinks  by 
proxy,  and  talks  by  rote.  He  differs  with  you,  not  because  he  thinks  you 
are  in  the  wrong,  but  because  he  thinks  somebody  else  will  think  so. 
Nay,  it  would  be  well  if  he  stopped  here  ;  but  he  will  undertake  to  mis- 
represent you  by  anticipation,  lest  others  should  misunderstand  you, 
and  will  set  you  right,  not  only  in  opinions  which  you  have,  but  in 
those  which  you  may  be  supposed  to  have.  Thus,  if  you  say  that 
Bottom^  the  weaver,  is  a  character  that  has  not  had  justice  done  to 
it,  he  shakes  his  head,  is  afraid  you  will  be  thought  extravagant,  and 
wonders  you  should  think  the  "  Midsummer  Night's  Dream  "  the 
finest  of  all  Shakespeare's  plays.  He  judges  of  matters  of  taste  and 
reasoning  as  he  does  of  dress  and  fashion,  by  the  prevailing  tone  of 
good  company ;  and  you  would  as  soon  persuade  him  to  give  up  any 
sentiment  that  is  current  there,  as  to  wear  the  hind  part  of  his  coat 
before.  By  the  best  company,  of  which  he  is  perpetually  talking,  he 
means  persons  who  live  on  their  own  estates  and  other  people's 
ideas.  By  the  opinion  of  the  world,  to  which  he  pays  and  expects 
you  to  pay  great  deference,  he  means  that  of  a  little  circle  of  his 
own,  where  he  hears  and  is  heard.  In  fact,  he  is  the  representative 
of  a  large  part  of  the  community,  the  shallow,  the  vain,  and  indolent, 
of  those  who  have  time  to  talk,  and  are  not  bound  to  think  ;  and 
he  considers  any  deviation  from  the  select  forms  of  commonplace^ 


WILLIAM   KAZLITT.  349 

or  the  accredited  language  of  conventional  impertinence,  as  com- 
promising the  authority  under  which  he  acts  in  his  diplomatic 
capacity.  It  is  wonderful  how  this  class  of  people  agree  with  one 
another  ;  how  they  herd  together  in  all  their  opinions  ;  what  a  tact 
they  have  for  folly  ;  what  an  instinct  for  absurdity  ;  what  a  sympathy 
in  sentiment ;  how  they  find  one  another  out  by  infallible  signs,  like 
Freemasons  !  The  secret  of  this  unanimity  and  strict  accord  is,  that 
not  any  one  of  them  ever  admits  any  opinion  that  can  cost  the  least 
effort  of  mind  in  arriving  at,  or  of  courage  in  declaring  it.  Folly  is 
as  consistent  with  itself  as  wisdom :  there  is  a  certain  level  of 
thought  and  sentiment,  which  the  weakest  minds,  as  well  as  the 
strongest,  find  out  as  best  adapted  to  them  ;  and  you  as  regularly 
come  to  the  same  conclusions,  by  looking  no  farther  than  the 
surface,  as  if  you  dug  to  the  centre  of  the  earth.  You  know  before- 
hand what  a  critic  of  this  class  will  say,  on  almost  every  subject,  the 
first  time  he  sees  you,  the  next  time,  the  time  after  that,  and  so  on 
to  the  end  of  the  chapter.  The  following  list  of  his  opinions  may  be 
relied  on  :  It  is  pretty  certain  that  before  you  have  been  in  the 
room  with  him  ten  minutes,  he  will  give  you  to  understand  that 
Shakespeare  was  a  great  but  irregular  genius.  Again,  he  thinks  it  a 
question  whether  any  one  of  his  plays,  if  brought  out  now  for  the 
first  time,  would  succeed.  He  thinks  that  Macbeth  would  be  the 
most  likely,  from  the  music  which  has  since  been  introduced  into  it. 
He  has  some  doubts  as  to  the  superiority  of  the  French  school  over 
us  in  tragedy,  and  observes,  that  Hume  and  Adam  Smith  were  both 
of  that  opinion.  He  thinks  Milton's  pedantry  a  great  blemish  in  his 
writings,  and  that  Paradise  Lost  has  many  prosaic  passages  in  it. 
He  conceives  that  genius  does  not  always  imply  taste,  and  that  wit 
and  judgment  are  very  diiferent  faculties.  He  considers  Dr.  John- 
son as  a  great  critic  and  moralist,  and  that  his  Dictionary  was  a 
work  of  prodigious  erudition  and  vast  industry;  but  that  some  of  the 
anecdotes  of  him  in  Boswell  are  trifling.  He  conceives  that  Mr. 
Locke  was  a  very  original  and  profound  thinker.  He  thinks  Gib- 
bon's style  vigorous  but  florid.  He  wonders  that  the  author  of 
Junius  was  never  found  out.  He  thinks  Pope's  translation  of  the 
Ihad  an  improvement  on  the  simplicity  of  the  original,  which  was 
necessary  to  fit  it  to  the  taste  of  modern  readers.  He  thinks  there 
is  a  great  deal  of  grossness  in  the  old  comedies  ;  and  that  there  has 
been  a  great  improvement  in  the  morals  of  the  higher  classes  since 
the  reign  of  Charles  11.  He  thinks  the  reign  of  Queen  Anne  the 
golden  period  of  our  literature  ;  but  that,  upon  the  whole,  we  have 


350  HAND-BOOK   OF  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

no  English  writer  equal  to  Voltaire.  He  can  see  no  reason  why 
artists  of  the  present  day  should  not  paint  as  well  as  Raphael  or 
Titian.  He  judges  of  people  by  their  pretensions,  and  pays  atten- 
tion to  their  opinions  according  to  their  dress  and  rank  in  life.  If 
he  meets  with  a  fool,  he  does  not  find  him  out ;  and  if  he  meets  with 
any  one  wiser  than  himself,  he  does  not  know  what  to  make  of  him. 
He  thinks  that  manners  are  of  great  consequence  to  the  common 
intercourse  of  life.  He  thinks  it  difficult  to  prove  the  existence  of 
any  such  thing  as  original  genius,  or  to  fix  a  general  standard  of 
taste.  He  does  not  think  it  possible  to  define  what  wit  is.  In 
religion,  his  opinions  are  liberal.  He  considers  all  enthusiasm  as  a 
degree  of  madness,  particularly  to  be  guarded  against  by  young 
minds  ;  and  believes  that  truth  lies  in  the  middle,  between  the 
extremes  of  right  and  wrong.  He  thinks  that  the  object  of  poetry 
is  to  please  ;  and  that  astronomy  is  a  very  pleasing  and  useful  study. 
He  thinks  all  this,  and  a  great  deal  more,  that  amounts  to  nothing. 
We  wonder  we  have  remembered  one  half  of  it. 


LORD   BROUGHAM. 

Henry  Brougham  was  born  in  Edinburgh  in  1779.  He  was  educated  in  the  High  School 
and  University  of  his  native  city,  and  was  early  distinguished  as  a  scholar,  especially  in  the 
mathematics  and  optics.  He  studied  law,  and  became  an  eminent  advocate  ;  and  in  1810  he 
was  elected  a  member  of  Parliament.  His  intellect  was  strong,  his  learning  universal,  his 
temper  aggressive  ;  and  his  sympathies  with  progress  made  him  one  of  the  most  able  and 
influential  of  modern  reformers.  The  abolition  of  slavery,  the  reform  of  the  Court  of  Chan- 
cery, the  restrictions  of  borough  representation  in  Parliament,  and  many  other  popular 
movements  found  in  him  a  powerful  champion ;  still  he  frequently  disappointed  his  asso- 
ciates, and  could  never  be  counted  upon  as  a  party  man.  In  1830  he  became  Lord  Chan- 
cellor, and  held  the  office  four  years.  His  speeches  rank  with  the  ablest  of  the  time  ;  but 
their  power  and  effect  are  inseparable  from  the  events  which  called  them  forth  ;  they  are  a 
part  of  the  history,  rather  than  of  the  literature,  of  England.  His  other  chief  works  are 
Memoirs  of  the  Statesmen  of  the  Reign  of  George  III.,  Political  Philosophy,  The  Elo- 
quence of  the  Ancients,  Discourse  on  Paley's  Natural  Philosophy,  a  View  of  Newton's 
Principia,  and  his  contributions  to  the  Edinburgh  Review.  His  complete  works  are  pub- 
lished in  an  edition  of  eleven  volumes,  London,  i860.  During  the  last  years  of  his  hfe  he 
resided  at  Cannes,  in  France,  where  he  died  in  1868. 

[From  "Historical  Sketches  of  Statesmen."] 
EDMUND   BURKE. 

How  much  soever  men  may  differ  as  to  the  soundness  of  Mr. 
Burke's  doctrines,  or  the  purity  of  his  public  conduct,  there  can  be 
no  hesitation  in  according  to  him  a  station  among  the  most  extraor- 


LORD   BROUGHAM.  351 

dinary  persons  that  have  ever  appeared ;  nor  is  there  now  any  di- 
versity of  opinion  as  to  the  place  it  is  fit  to  assign  him.  He  was  a 
writer  of  the  first  class,  and  excelled  in  almost  every  kind  of  prose 
composition.  Possessed  of  most  extensive  knowledge,  and  of  the 
most  various  description  ;  acquainted  alike  with  what  different  classes 
of  men  knew,  each  in  his  own  province,  and  with  much  that  hardly 
any  one  ever  thought  of  learning ;  he  could  either  bring  his  masses 
of  information  to  bear  directly  upon  the  subjects  to  which  they  sev- 
erally belonged,  or  he  could  avail  himself  of  them  generally  to 
strengthen  his  faculties  and  enlarge  his  views,  or  he  could  turn  any 
portion  of  them  to  account  for  the  purpose  of  illustrating  his  theme 
or  enriching  his  diction.  Hence,  when  he  is  handling  any  one  mat- 
ter, we  perceive  that  we  are  conversing  with  a  reasoner  or  a  teacher, 
to  whom  almost  every  other  branch  of  knowledge  is  familiar.  His 
views  range  over  all  the  cognate  subjects  ;  his  reasonings  are  derived 
from  principles  applicable  to  other  matters  as  well  as  the  one  in  hand  ; 
arguments  pour  in  from  all  sides,  as  well  as  those  which  start  up 
under  our  feet,  the  natural  growth  of  the  path  he  is  leading  us  over ; 
while,  to  throw  light  round  our  steps,  and  either  explore  its  darker 
places,  or  serve  for  our  recreation,  illustrations  are  fetched  from  a 
thousand  quarters  ;  and  an  imagination  marvellously  quick  to  descry 
unthought-of  resemblances  pours  forth  the  stores  which  a  lore  yet 
more  marvellous  has  gathered  from  all  ages  and  nations,  and  arts 
and  tongues.  We  are,  in  respect  of  the  argument,  reminded  of 
Bacon's  multifarious  knowledge,  and  the  exuberance  of  his  learned 
fancy,  while  the  many-lettered  diction  recalls  to  mind  the  first  of 
Enghsh  poets,  and  his  immortal  verse,  rich  with  the  spoils  of  all 
sciences  and  all  times. 

It  is  another  characteristic  of  this  great  writer,  that  the  unlimited 
abundance  of  his  stores  makes  him  profuse  in  their  expenditure. 
Never  content  with  one  view  of  a  subject,  or  one  manner  of  handhng 
it,  he  for  the  most  part  lavishes  his  whole  resources  upon  the  discus- 
sion of  each  point.  In  controversy,  this  is  emphatically  the  case. 
Indeed,  nothing  is  more  remarkable  than  the  variety  of  ways  in 
which  he  makes  his  approaches  to  any  position  he  would  master. 
After  reconnoitring  it  with  skill  and  boldness,  if  not  with  perfect 
accuracy,  he  manoeuvres  with  infinite  address,  and  arrays  a  most 
imposing  force  of  general  principles  mustered  from  all  parts,  and 
pointed,  sometimes  violently  enough,  in  one  direction.  He  now 
moves  on  with  the  composed  air,  the  even,  dignified  pace  of  the  his- 


352  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

torian,  and  unfolds  his  facts  in  a  narrative  so  easy,  and  yet  so  correct, 
that  you  plainly  perceive  he  wanted  only  the  dismissal  of  other  pur- 
suits to  have  rivalled  Livy  or  Hume.  But  soon  this  advance  is  in- 
terrupted, and  he  stops  to  display  his  powers  of  description,  when 
the  boldness  of  his  design  is  only  matched  by  the  brilliancy  of  his 
coloring.  He  then  skirmishes  for  a  space,  and  puts  in  motion  all  the 
lighter  arms  of  wit,  sometimes  not  unmingled  with  drollery,  some- 
times bordering  upon  farce.  His  main  battery  is  now  opened,  and  a 
tempest  bursts  forth  of  every  weapon  of  attack  —  invective,  abuse, 
irony,  sarcasm,  simile  drawn  out  to  allegory,  allusion,  quotation, 
fable,  parable,  anathema.  The  heavy  artillery  of  powerful  declama- 
tion and  the  conflict  of  close  argument  alone  are  wanting ;  but  of 
this  the  garrison  is  not  always  aware  ;  his  noise  is  oftentimes  mis- 
taken for  the  thunder  of  true  eloquence  ;  the  number  of  his  move- 
ments distracts,  and  the  variety  of  his  missiles  annoys,  the  adversary  ; 
a  panic  spreads,  and  he  carries  his  point  as  if  he  had  actually  made 
a  practicable  breach  ;  nor  is  it  discovered  till  after  the  smoke  and 
confusion  is  over,  that  the  citadel  remains  untouched. 


MR.    FOX. 

In  most  of  the  external  qualities  of  oratory  Mr,  Fox  was  certainly 
deficient,  being  of  an  unwieldy  person,  without  any  grace  of  action, 
with  a  voice  of  little  compass,  and  which,  when  pressed  in  the  vehe- 
mence of  his  speech,  became  shrill  almost  to  a  cry  or  squeak  ;  yet 
all  this  was  absolutely  forgotten  in  the  moment  when  the  torrent 
began  to  pour.  Some  of  the  undertones  of  his  voice  were  peculiarly 
sweet ;  and  there  was  even  in  the  shrill  and  piercing  sounds  which 
he  uttered  when  at  the  more  exalted  pitch,  a  power  that  thrilled  the 
heart  of  the  hearer.  His  pronunciation  of  our  language  was  singu- 
larly beautiful,  and  his  use  of  it  pure  and  chaste  to  severity.  As  he 
rejected,  from  the  correctness  of  his  taste,  all  vicious  ornaments,  and 
was  most  sparing,  indeed,  in  the  use  of  figures  at  all,  so,  in  his  choice 
of  words,  he  justly  shunned  foreign  idiom,  or  words  borrowed,  wheth- 
er from  the  ancient  or  modern  languages,  and  affected  the  pure  Saxon 
tongue,  the  resources  of  which  are  unknown  to  so  many  who  use  it, 
both  in  writing  and  in  speaking. 


LORD   BROUGHAM.  353 

MR.   PITT. 

He  is  to  be  placed,  without  any  doubt,  in  the  highest  class.  With 
a  sparing  use  of  ornament,  hardly  indulging  more  in  figures,  or  even 
in  figurative  expression,  than  the  most  severe  examples  of  ancient 
chasteness  allowed,  with  little  variety  of  style,  hardly  any  of  the 
graces  of  manner,  he  no  sooner  rose  than  he  carried  away  every 
hearer,  and  kept  the  attention  fixed  and  unflagging  till  it  pleased  him 
to  let  it  go  ;  and  then 

"  So  charming  left  his  voice,  that  we,  a  while, 
Still  thought  him  speaking,  still  stood  fixed  to  hear." 

But  if  such  was  the  unfailing  impression  at  first  produced,  and 
which,  for  a  season  absorbing  the  faculties,  precluded  all  criticism, 
upon  reflection,  faults  and  imperfections  certainly  were  disclosed. 
There  prevailed  a  monotony  in  the  matter,  as  well  as  in  the  manner, 
and  even  the  delightful  voice  which  so  long  prevented  this  from  be- 
ing felt  was  itself  almost  without  any  variety  of  tone.  All  things 
were  said  nearly  in  the  same  way ;  as  if  by  some  curious  machine, 
periods  were  rounded  and  flung  off;  as  if,  in  like  moulds,  though  of 
different  sizes,  ideas  were  shaped  and  brought  out.  His  composi- 
tion was  correct  enough,  but  not  peculiarly  felicitous  ;  his  English 
was  sufficiently  pure  without  being  at  all  racy,  or  various,  or  brilliant ; 
his  style  was,  by  Mr.  Windham,  called  "  a  state  paper  style,"  in  allu- 
sion to  its  combined  dignity  and  poverty  ;  and  the  same  nice  observ- 
er, referring  to  the  eminently  skilful  way  in  which  he  balanced  his 
phrases,  sailed  near  the  wind,  and  seemed  to  disclose  much  whilst  he 
kept  the  greater  part  of  his  meaning  to  himself,  declared  that  "  he 
verily  believed  Mr.  Pitt  could  speak  a  king's  speech  oflf-hand."  His 
declamation  was  admirable,  mingling  with  and  clothing  the  argu- 
ment, as,  to  be  good  for  anything,  declamation  always  must,  and  no 
more  separable  from  the  reasoning  than  the  heat  is  from  the  metal 
in  a  stream  of  lava.  Yet,  with  all  this  excellence,  the  last  effect  of 
the  highest  eloquence  was  for  the  most  part  wanting ;  we  seldom 
forgot  the  speaker,  or  lost  the  artist  in  the  work.  He  was  earnest 
enough  ;  he  seemed  quite  sincere  ;  he  was  moved  himself  as  he 
would  move  us  ;  we  even  went  along  with  him,  and  forgot  ourselves; 
but  we  hardly  forgot  him;  and  while  thrilled  with  the  glow  which 
his  burning  words  diffused,  or  transfixed  with  wonder  at  so  marvel- 
lous a  display  of  skill,  we  yet  felt  that  it  was  admiration  of  a  consum- 
mate artist  which  filled  us,  and  that,  after  all,  we  were  present  at  an 
exhibition,  gazing  upon  a  wonderful  performer,  indeed,  but  still  a 
performer.  n 


354  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 


HORACE    SMITH. 

Horace  Smith  was  bom  in  London  in  1779.  His  elder  brother,  James,  was  associated  with 
him  in  several  literary  ventures,  so  that  their  names  are  almost  always  mentioned  together, 
and  their  productions  regarded  as  common  property.  But  James  was  merely  a  clever  writer 
of  verses  intended  for  special  occasions,  while  Horace  had  the  true  poetic  talent,  and  has  left 
some  poems  which  will  not  be  soon  forgotten.  Both  were  educated  at  a  private  school,  after 
which  the  elder  succeeded  his  father  in  a  public  office,  and  the  younger  became  a  member  of 
the  Stock  Exchange.  Horace  amassed  a  fortune  in  his  business,  but  found  leisure  to  write 
no  less  than  fifty  separate  works.  Several  of  his  novels  enjoy  a  certain  popularity  to  this 
day.  His  best  known  poems  are  The  Address  to  the  Mummy  in  Belzoni's  Exhibition,  — 
dear  to  all  school-boys,  —  Campbell's  Funeral,  and  the  Hymn  to  the  Flowers,  which  is  here 
printed.  The  work  by  which  the  brothers  are  best  known  is  the  Rejected  Addresses,  a  se- 
ries of  burlesque  imitations  of  the  best  poets  of  the  period,  purporting  to  have  been  written 
upon  the  occasion  of  the  opaning  of  Drury  Lane  Theatre,  which  had  been  rebuilt,  after 
having  been  burned.  These  parodies  are  among  the  best  of  their  class,  but  to  be  appre- 
ciated they  require  considerable  acquaintance  with  current  events,  and  a  pretty  thorough 
familiarity  with  the  style  of  the  reigning  poets. 

The  poems  of  the  brothers  have  been  collected  and  annotated  in  a  very  admirable  man- 
ner by  Mr.  Epes  Sargent.  The  great  number,  and  the  comparatively  unimportant  rank,  of 
the  novels  and  other  works  of  Horace  Smith  render  an  enumeration  of  them  difficult,  and, 
in  a  measure,  useless. 

In  private  life  Horace  Smith  was  highly  esteemed ;  and  his  career,  fortunate  in  two  as- 
p>ects,  shows  that  literary  success  is  not  incompatible  with  sound  business  qualities.  He 
died  in  1849,  i"  l^^is  seventieth  year. 

HYMN   TO   THE   FLOWERS, 

Day-stars,  that  ope  your  frownless  eyes  to  twinkle 

From  rainbow  galaxies  of  earth's  creation, 
And  dew-drops  on  her  lonely  altars  sprinkle 
As  a  libation, 

Ye  matin  worshippers,  who,  bending  lowly 

Before  the  uprisen  sun,  —  God's  lidless  eye,  — 
Throw  from  your  chalices  a  sweet  and  holy 
Incense  on  high, 

Ye  bright  mosaics,  that,  with  storied  beauty. 

The  floor  of  nature's  temple  tessellate. 
What  numerous  emblems  of  instructive  duty 
Your  forms  create  ! 

'Neath  cloistered  boughs,  each  floral  bell  that  swingeth, 

And  tolls  its  perfume  on  the  passing  air, 
Makes  Sabbath  in  the  fields,  and  ever  ringeth 
A  call  to  prayer. 


HORACE   SMITH.  355 

Not  to  the  domes  where  crumbling  arch  and  column 

Attest  the  feebleness  of  mortal  hand, 
But  to  that  fane,  most  catholic  and  solemn. 
Which  God  hath  planned  — 

To  that  cathedral,  boundless  as  our  wonder. 

Whose  quenchless  lamps  the  sun  and  moon  supply  ; 
Its  choir,  the  winds  and  waves  ;  its  organ,  thunder  ; 
Its  dome,  the  sky. 

There,  as  in  solitude  and  shade  I  wander 

Through  the  green  aisles,  or,  stretched  upon  the  sod. 
Awed  by  the  silence,  reverently  ponder 
The  ways  of  God,  — 

Your  voiceless  lips,  O  flowers,  are  living  preachers. 

Each  cup  a  pulpit,  every  leaf  a  book. 
Supplying  to  my  fancy  numerous  teachers 
From  loneliest  nook. 

Floral  apostles,  that,  in  dewy  splendor, 

"  Weep  without  woe,  and  blush  without  a  crime," 
O,  may  I  deeply  learn,  and  ne'er  surrender. 
Your  lore  sublime. 

"  Thou  wert  not,  Solomon,  in  all  thy  glory, 

Arrayed,"  the  lilies  cry,  "  in  robes  like  ours. 
How  vain  your  grandeur  !  ah,  how  transitory 
Are  human  flowers  !  " 

In  the  sweet-scented  pictures,  heavenly  Artist, 

With  which  thou  paintest  nature's  wide-spread  hall, 
What  a  delightful  lesson  thou  impartest 
Of  love  to  all ! 

Not  useless  are  ye,  flowers,  though  made  for  pleasure : 

Blooming  o'er  field  and  wave,  by  day  and  night, 
From  every  source  your  sanction  bids  me  treasure 
Harmless  delight. 

Ephemeral  sages,  what  instructors  hoary 

For  such  a  world  of  thought  could  furnish  scope  ?  — 
Each  fading  calyx  a  memento  jnori^ 
Yet  fount  of  hope. 


35^  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

Posthumous  glories,  angel-like  collection, 

Upraised  from  seed  or  bulb  interred  in  earth, 
Ye  are  to  me  a  type  of  resurrection 
And  second  birth. 

Were  I  in  churchless  solitudes  remaining, 

Far  from  all  voice  of  teachers  and  divines, 
My  soul  would  find  in  flowers  of  God's  ordaining 
Priests,  sermons,  shrines. 


THE   farmer's   wife   AND   THE   GASCON. 

At  Neufchatel,  in  France,  where  they  prepare 
Cheeses  that  set  us  longing  to  be  mites. 
There  dwelt  a  farmer's  wife  famed  for  her  rare 
Skill  in  these  small,  quadrangular  delights. 
Where  they  were  made  they  sold  for  the  immense 
Price  of  three  sous  apiece  ; 
But,  as  salt  water  made  their  charms  increase, 
In  England  the  fixed  rate  was  eighteen  pence. 

This  good  wife  had,  to  help  her  in  the  farm, 

To  milk  her  cows,  and  feed  her  hogs, 

A  Gascon  peasant,  with  a  sturdy  arm 

For  digging,  or  carrying  logs. 

But  in  his  noddle  weak  as  any  baby, 

In  fact  a  gaby. 

And  such  a  glutton,  when  you  came  to  feed  him. 

That  Wantley's  dragon,  who  "  ate  barns  and  churches 

As  if  they  were  geese  and  turkeys  " 

( Vide  the  ballad),  scarcely  could  exceed  him. 

One  morn  she  had  prepared  a  monstrous  bowl 

Of  cream,  like  nectar, 

And  wouldn't  go  to  church  —  good,  careful  soul  — 

Till  she  had  left  it  safe  with  a  protector  ; 

So  she  gave  strict  injunctions  to  the  Gascon 

To  watch  it  while  his  mistress  was  to  mass  gone. 

Watch  it  he  did  :  he  never  took  his  eyes  off, 
But  licked  his  upper,  then  his  under,  lip, 


HORACE   SMITH.  2S7 

And  doubled  up  his  fist  to  drive  the  flies  off, 

Begrudging  them  the  smallest  sip, 

Which,  if  they  got, 

Like  my  Lord  Salisbury,  he  heaved  a  sigh, 

And  cried,  "  O,  happy,  happy  fly  ! 

How  I  do  envy  you  your  lot !  " 

Each  moment  did  his  appetite  grow  stronger ; 

His  bowels  yearned ; 

At  length  he  could  not  bear  it  any  longer. 

But  on  all  sides  his  looks  he  turned. 

And,  finding  that  the  coast  was  clear,  he  quaffed 

The  whole  up  at  a  draught. 

Scudding  fi-om  church,  the  farmer's  wife 

Flew  to  the  dairy, 

But  stood  aghast,  and  could  not,  for  her  hfe. 

One  sentence  utter. 

Until  she  summoned  breath  enough  to  mutter, 

"  Holy  St.  Mary  !  "  — 

And,  shortly,  with  a  face  of  scarlet. 

The  vixen  —  for  she  was  a  vixen  —  flew 

Upon  the  varlet, 

Asking  the  when,  and  where,  and  how,  and  who 

Had  gulped  her  cream,  nor  left  an  atom  ; 

To  which  he  gave  not  separate  replies, 

But,  with  a  look  of  excellent  digestion. 

One  answer  made  to  every  question  — 

"  The  flies." 

"  The  flies,  you  rogue  !  the  flies,  you  guzzling  rogue  ! 

Behold,  your  whiskers  still  are  covered  thickly. 

Thief !  liar  !  villain  !  gormandizer  !  hog  ! 

I'll  make  you  tell  another  story  quickly." 

So  out  she  bounced,  and  brought,  with  loud  alarms, 

Two  stout  gens-d'' armes^ 

Who  bore  him  to  the  judge  —  a  little  prig, 

With  angry,  bottle  nose 

Like  a  red  cabbage  rose. 

While  lots  of  white  ones  flourished  on  his  wig. 

Looking  at  once  both  stern  and  wise. 

He  turned  to  the  delinquent, 


358  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

And  'gan  to  question  him,  and  catechize 
As  to  which  way  the  drink  went : 
Still  the  same  dogged  answers  rise  — 
"  The  flies,  my  Lord  !  the  flies,  the  flies  ! " 

"  Psha  !  "  quoth  the  judge,  half  peevish  and  half  pompous, 

"Why,  you're  non  compos j 

You  should  have  watched  the  bowl,  as  she  desired, 

And  killed  the  flies,  you  stupid  clown." 

"  What !  is  it  lawful,  then,"  the  dolt  inquired, 

"To  kill  the  flies  in  this  here  town .?" 

"  The  man's  an  ass  !  a  pretty  question  this  ! 

Lawful,  you  booby  ?     To  be  sure  it  is. 

You've  my  authority,  whene'er  you  meet  'em. 

To  kill  the  rogues,  and,  if  you  like  it,  eat  'em." 

"  Zooks  !  "  cried  the  rustic,  "  I'm  right  glad  to  hear  it. 

Constable,  catch  that  thief!     May  I  go  hang, 

If  yonder  blue-bottle  —  I  know  his  face  — 

Isn't  the  very  leader  of  the  gang 

That  stole  the  cream !     Let  me  come  near  it." 

This  said,  he  started  from  his  place. 

And,  aiming  one  of  his  sledge-hammer  blows 

At  a  large  fly  upon  the  judge's  nose. 

The  luckless  blue-bottle  he  smashed. 

And  gratified  a  double  grudge  ; 

For  the  same  catapult  completely  mashed 

The  bottle  nose  belonging  to  the  judge. 


THOMAS    MOORE. 

Thomas  Moore  was  bom  in  Dublin  in  1779,  and  was  educated  in  the  university  of  that 
city.  He  went  to  London  in  1799  to  read  law,  and  the  year  after  published  his  translation 
of  Anacreon.  His  first  original  poems  were  published  under  the  name  of  Thomas  Little  ; 
they  were  grossly  indelicate,  and  the  poet,  it  is  believed,  was  afterwards  quite  ashamed  of 
them.  He  was  soon  after  sent  to  Bermuda  in  an  official  capacity,  and  remained  there  over 
a  year,  during  which  time  his  pen  was  busy.  On  his  return  he  wrote  several  pungent  polit- 
ical satires  in  the  interest  of  the  Whig  party.  Next  appeared  his  best  and  most  famous 
productions,  the  Irish  Melodies,  which  are  pervaded  by  an  intense  national  feeling,  and 
marked  by  an  uncommon  felicity  of  phrase,  as  well  as  by  a  strong  musical  rhythm.  They 
were  written  for  favorite  native  airs,  and  are  now  firmly  established  among  the  folk-songs 
of  Ireland. 

Lalla  Rookh  was  published  in  181 7.     It  is  full  of  Oriental  learning,  — rather  overladen 


THOMAS   MOORE.  359 

with  it,  in  fact,  —  but  the  story  connecting  the  several  parts  is  gracefully  told,  and  there  are 
many  passages  of  great  beauty  and  power  throughout  the  whole  poem.  An  occasional  pref- 
erence for  tinsel,  in  place  of  bullion,  easily  passed  over  by  romantic  persons  of  a  certain 
age,  gives  the  maturer  critic  a  twinge  in  reading ;  and  it  may  be  pretty  safely  assumed  that 
in  any  house  the  copy  of  Lalla  Rookh,  in  which  the  gray-beard  once  delighted,  has  now 
found  its  way  into  the  book-shelves  of  the  coming  generation. 

Moore  made  a  visit  to  Paris  in  company  with  Rogers,  and,  two  years  later,  travelled  to 
Italy  with  Lord  John  Russell,  at  which  time  he  visited  Lord  Byron  in  Venice.  Returning, 
he  stopped  at  Paris,  and  remained  there  until  1822.  His  subsequent  works  were,  The  Loves 
of  the  Angels,  an  Eastern  story ;  the  Life  of  Byron,  and  the  Life  of  Sheridan,  and  The 
Epicurean.  A  complete  edition  of  his  works,  in  ten  volumes,  was  issued  in  1842.  He  died 
in  1852  —  dying,  as  Dean  Swift  said,  like  a  cedar,  from  the  top  downwards.  Moore  certain- 
ly possessed  many  remarkable  traits  of  mind  ;  but  he  was  animated  rather  than  brilliant, 
fanciful  rather  than  imaginative,  prone  to  indulge  in  a  tawdry  excess  of  ornament,  and  in  a 
juvenile  exuberance  of  feeling  which  seems  an  affectation,  whether  real  or  not.  But  on  his 
native  soil  his  step  was  firm  and  his  eye  clear.  His  patriotic  songs  are  not  only  the  best  in 
Ireland's  history,  but  they  may  challenge  comparison  with  those  of  any  nation. 

The  poet  was  an  amiable  person,  fond  of  society,  and  especially  proud  of  his  titled  friends. 
His  Memoirs,  edited  by  Lord  John  Russell,  from  which  much  was  expected,  proved  to  be 
quite,  void  of  interest. 

PARADISE    AND   THE   PERI. 

One  morn  a  Peri  at  the  gate 
Of  Eden  stood  disconsolate, 
And  as  she  listened  to  the  Springs 

Of  Life  within,  Hke  music  flowing, 
And  caught  the  light  upon  her  wings 

Through  the  half-open  portal  glowing, 
She  wept  to  think  her  recreant  race 
Should  e'er  have  lost  that  glorious  place. 

"  How  happy,"  exclaimed  this  child  of  air, 
"  Are  the  holy  spirits  who  wander  there, 

'Mid  flowers  that  never  shall  fade  or  fall : 
Though  mine  are  the  gardens  of  earth  and  sea, 
And  the  stars  themselves  have  flowers  for  me. 

One  blossom  of  heaven  out-blooms  them  all. 

"  Though  sunny  the  lake  of  cool  Cashmere, 
With  its  plane-tree  isle  reflected  clear, 

And  sweetly  the  founts  of  that  valley  fall ; 
Though  bright  are  the  waters  of  Sing-su-hay, 
And  the  golden  floods  that  thitherward  stray  ; 
Yet,  O  !  'tis  only  the  blest  can  say 

How  the  waters  of  heaven  outshine  them  all. 


360  HAND-BOOK    OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

"  Go,  wing  thy  flight  from  star  to  star, 
From  world  to  luminous  world,  as  far 

As  the  universe  spreads  its  flaming  wall ; 
Take  all  the  pleasures  of  all  the  spheres, 
And  multiply  each  through  endless  years  — 

One  minute  of  heaven  is  worth  them  all." 

The  glorious  Angel  who  was  keeping 
The  Gates  of  Light  beheld  her  weeping ; 
And,  as  he  nearer  drew,  and  listened 
To  her  sad  song,  a  tear-drop  glistened 
Within  his  eyehds,  like  the  spray 

From  Eden's  fountain,  when  it  lies 
On  the  blue  flower,  which  Bramins  say 

Blooms  nowhere  but  in  Paradise.* 

"  Nymph  of  a  fair  but  erring  line," 
Gently  he  said,  "one  hope  is  thine. 
'Tis  written  in  the  Book  of  Fate, 

'  The  Peri  yet  may  be  forgiven 
Who  brings  to  this  eternal  gate 

The  gift  that  is  most  dear  to  Heaven.' 
Go,  seek  it,  and  redeem  thy  sin  : 
'Tis  sweet  to  let  the  pardoned  in." 

Rapidly  as  comets  run 

To  the  embraces  of  the  Sun, 

Fleeter  than  the  starry  brands 

Flung  at  night  from  angel  hands 

At  those  dark  and  daring  sprites 

Who  would  climb  the  empyreal  heights, 

Down  the  blue  vault  the  Peri  flies. 

And,  lighted  earthward  by  a  glance 
That  just  then  broke  from  morning's  eyes, 

Hung  hovering  o'er  our  world's  expanse. 

But  whither  shall  the  Spirit  go 
To  find  this  gift  for  Heaven  ?     "I  know 
The  wealth,"  she  cries,  "  of  every  urn, 
In  which  unnumbered  rubies  burn, 

1  The  blue  campaa 


THOMAS   MOORE.  361 

Beneath  the  pillars  of  Chilminar  ;  ^ 

I  know  where  the  Isles  of  Perfume  are, 

Many  a  fathom  down  in  the  sea, 

To  the  south  of  sun-bright  Araby ; 

I  know,  too,  where  the  genii  hid 

The  jewelled  cup  of  their  King  Jamshid, 

With  Life's  ehxir  sparkling  high  ; 

But  gifts  like  these  are  not  for  the  sky. 

Where  was  there  ever  a  gem  that  shone 

Like  the  steps  of  Alla's  wonderful  throne  ? 

And  the  Drops  of  Life  —  O,  what  would  they  be 

In  the  boundless  deep  of  eternity !  " 

While  thus  she  mused,  her  pinions  fanned 
The  air  of  that  sweet  Indian  land 
Whose  air  is  balm,  whose  ocean  spreads 
O'er  coral  rocks  and  amber  beds  ; 
Whose  mountains,  pregnant  by  the  beam 
Of  the  warm  sun,  with  diamonds  teem  ; 
Whose  rivulets  are  like  rich  brides, 
Lovely,  with  gold  beneath  their  tides  ; 
Whose  sandal  groves  and  bowers  of  spice 
Might  be  a  Peri's  paradise  ; 
But  crimson  now  her  rivers  ran 

With  human  blood  ;  the  smell  of  death 
Came  reeking  from  those  spicy  bowers, 
And  man,  the  sacrifice  of  man, 

Mingled  his  taint  with  every  breath 
Upwafted  from  the  innocent  flowers. 
Land  of  the  Sun,  what  foot  invades 
Thy  pagods  and  thy  pillared  shades,^ 
Thy  cavern  shrines,  and  idol  stones, 
Thy  monarchs  and  their  thousand  thrones  ? 
'Tis  he  of  Gazna  :  '^  fierce  in  wrath 

He  comes,  and  India's  diadems 
Lie  scattered  in  his  ruinous  path. 

His  bloodhounds  he  adorns  with  gems 
Torn  from  the  violated  necks 

Of  many  a  young  and  loved  sultana ; 

The  ruins  of  PersepoHs.        2  The  banyan  tree.        ^  Mahmood,  conqueror  of  India. 


362  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   1.ITERATURE. 

Maidens  within  their  pure  Zenana, 

Priests  in  the  very  fane  he  slaughters, 
And  chokes  up  with  the  ghttering  wrecks 

Of  golden  shrines  the  sacred  waters. 
Downward  the  Peri  turns  her  gaze, 
And  through  the  war-field's  bloody  haze 
Beholds  a  youthful  warrior  stand 

Alone  beside  his  native  river, 
The  red  blade  broken  in  his  hand, 

And  the  last  arrow  in  his  quiver. 
"  Live,"  said  the  conqueror,  "  live  to  share 
The  trophies  and  the  crowns  I  bear." 
Silent  that  youthful  warrior  stood  — 
Silent  he  pointed  to  the  flood 
All  crimson  with  his  country's  blood, 
Then  sent  his  last  remaining  dart. 
For  answer,  to  the  invader's  heart. 

False  flew  the  shaft,  though  pointed  well ; 
The  tyrant  lived,  the  hero  fell ; 
Yet  marked  the  Peri  where  he  lay, 

And,  when  the  rush  of  war  was  past, 
Swiftly  descending  on  a  ray 

Of  morning  light,  she  caught  the  last, 
Last  glorious  drop  his  heart  had  shed 
Before  its  free-born  spirit  fled. 

"  Be  this,"  she  cried,  as  she  winged  her  flight, 
"  My  welcome  gift  at  the  Gates  of  Light. 
Though  foul  are  the  drops  that  oft  distil 

On  the  field  of  warfare,  blood  like  this, 

For  liberty  shed,  so  holy  is, 
It  would  not  stain  the  purest  rill  \ 

That  sparkles  among  the  Bowers  of  Bliss. 
O,  if  there  be  on  this  earthly  sphere 
A  boon,  an  offering  Heaven  holds  dear, 
'Tis  the  last  libation  Liberty  draws 
From  the  heart  that  bleeds  and  breaks  in  her  cause.' 

"  Sweet,"  said  the  Angel,  as  she  gave 
The  gift  into  his  radiant  hand, 


THOMAS   MOORE.  ^16$ 

"  Sweet  is  our  welcome  of  the  brave 

Who  die  thus  for  their  native  land  ; 
But  see,  alas  !  the  crystal  bar 
Of  Eden  moves  not.     HoUer  far 
Than  even  this  drop  the  boon  must  be, 
That  opes  the  Gates  of  Heaven  for  thee." 

Her  first  fond  hope  of  Eden  blighted, 

Now  among  Afric's  lunar  mountains. 
Far  to  the  south,  the  Peri  lighted, 
And  sleeked  her  plumage  at  the  fountains 
Of  that  Egyptian  tide  whose  birth 
Is  hidden  from  the  sons  of  earth 
Deep  in  those  solitary  woods 
Where  oft  the  genii  of  the  floods 
Dance  round  the  cradle  of  their  Nile, 
And  hail  the  new-born  giant's  smile  ; 
Thence  over  Egypt's  palmy  groves. 

Her  grots,  and  sepulchres  of  kings. 
The  exiled  spirit  sighing  roves. 
And  now  hangs  listening  to  the  doves 
In  warm  Rosetta's  vale,  now  loves 

To  watch  the  moonlight  on  the  wings 
Of  the  white  pelicans  that  break 
The  azure  calm  of  Moeris'  Lake. 
'Twas  a  fair  scene  :  a  land  more  bright 

Never  did  mortal  eye  behold. 
Who  could  have  thought,  that  saw  this  night, 

Those  valleys  and  their  fruits  of  gold 
Basking  in  heaven's  serenest  light ; 
Those  groups  of  lovely  date  trees,  bending 

Languidly  their  leaf-crowned  heads. 
Like  youthful  maids,  AAjhen  sleep  descending 

Warns  them  to  their  silken  beds  ; 
Those  virgin  lilies,  all  the  night 

Bathing  their  beauties  in  the  lake. 
That  they  may  rise  more  fresh  and  bright 

When  their  belove'd  sun's  awake  ; 
Those  ruined  shrines  and  towers  that  seem 
The  relics  of  a  splendid  dream. 

Amid  whose  fairy  loneliness 


364  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

Nought  but  the  lapwing's  cry  is  heard, 

Nought  seen  but  (when  the  shadows,  flitting 
Fast  from  the  moon,  unsheathe  its  gleam) 

Some  purple-winged  sultana  *  sitting 

Upon  a  column,  motionless 
And  glittering  like  an  idol  bird  !  — 
Who  could  have  thought,  that  there,  even  there, 
Amid  those  scenes  so  still  and  fair. 
The  Demon  of  the  Plague  hath  cast 
From  his  hot  wing  a  deadlier  blast. 
More  mortal  far  than  ever  came 
From  the  red  Desert's  sands  of  flame  ! 
So  quick,  that  every  living  thing 
Of  human  shape,  touched  by  his  wing, 
Like  plants,  where  the  Simoom  hath  past. 
At  once  falls  black  and  withering ! 
The  sun  went  down  on  many  a  brow. 

Which,  full  of  bloom  and  freshness  then, 
Is  rankling  in  the  pest-house  now. 

And  ne'er  will  feel  that  sun  again. 
And,  O  !  to  see  the  unburied  heaps 
On  which  the  lonely  moonlight  sleeps  — 
The  very  vultures  turn  away. 
And  sicken  at  so  foul  a  prey ! 
Only  the  fierce  hyena  stalks 
Throughout  the  city's  desolate  walks 
At  midnight,  and  his  carnage  plies  — 

Woe  to  the  half-dead  wretch  who  meets 
The  glaring  of  those  large  blue  eyes 

Amid  the  darkness  of  the  streets  ! 

"  Poor  race  of  men  !  "  said  the  pitying  Spirit, 

"  Dearly  ye  pay  for  your  grimal  Fall  — 
Some  flowerets  of  Eden  ye  still  inherit. 

But  the  trail  of  the  Serpent  is  over  them  all ! " 
She  wept  —  the  air  grew  pure  and  clear 

Around  her,  as  the  bright  drops  ran  ; 
For  there's  a  magic  in  each  tear. 

Such  kindly  spirits  weep  for  man  ! 
Just  then  beneath  some  orange  trees, 

*  A  bird  of  brilliant  plumage. 


THOMAS   MOORE. 

Whose  fruit  and  blossoms  in  the  breeze 
Were  wantoning  together,  free, 
Like  age  at  play  with  infancy  — 
Beneath  that  fresh  and  springing  bower, 

Close  by  the  lake,  she  heard  the  moan 
Of  one  who,  at  this  silent  hour, 

Had  thither  stolen  to  die  alone. 
One  who  in  life  where'er  he  moved, 

Drew  after  him  the  hearts  of  many ; 
Yet  now,  as  though  he  ne'er  were  loved, 

Dies  here  unseen,  unwept  by  any  ! 
None  to  watch  near  him  —  none  to  slake 

The  fire  that  in  his  bosom  lies. 
With  even  a  sprinkle  from  that  lake, 

Which  shines  so  cool  before  his  eyes. 
No  voice,  well  known  through  many  a  day, 

To  speak  the  last,  the  parting  word, 
Which,  when  all  other  sounds  decay, 

Is  still  like  distant  music  heard  — 
That  tender  farewell  on  the  shore 
Of  this  rude  world,  when  all  is  o'er, 
Which  cheers  the  spirit,  ere  its  bark 
Puts  off  into  the  unknown  Dark. 

Deserted  youth  !  one  thought  alone 

Shed  joy  around  his  soul  in  death  — 
That  she,  whom  he  for  years  had  known. 
And  loved,  and  might  have  called  his  own, 

Was  safe  from  this  foul  midnight's  breath- 
Safe  in  her  father's  princely  halls, 
Where  the  cool  airs  from  fountain-falls. 
Freshly  perfumed  by  many  a  brand 
Of  the  sweet  wood  from  India's  land, 
Were  pure  as  she  whose  brow  they  fanned. 

But  see  —  who  yonder  comes  by  stealth. 
This  melancholy  bower  to  seek. 

Like  a  young  envoy,  sent  by  Health, 
With  rosy  gifts  upon  her  cheek  ? 

'Tis  she  —  far  off,  through  moonlight  dim 
He  knew  his  own  betrothed  bride. 


365 


366  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

She,  who  would  rather  die  with  him, 

Than  live  to  gain  the  world  beside  !  — 
Her  arms  are  round  her  lover  now, 

His  Hvid  cheek  to  hers  she  presses, 
And  dips,  to  bind  his  burning  brow. 

In  the  cool  lake  her  loosened  tresses. 
Ah  !  once,  how  little  did  he  think 
An  hour  would  come,  when  he  should  shrink 
With  horror  from  that  dear  embrace, 

Those  gentle  arms,  that  were  to  him 
Holy  as  is  the  cradling-place 

Of  Eden's  infant  cherubim  ! 
And  now  he  yields  —  now  turns  away. 
Shuddering  as  if  the  venom  lay 
All  in  those  proffered  lips  alone  — 
Those  lips  that,  then  so  fearless  grown. 
Never  until  that  instant  came 
Near  his  unasked  or  without  shame. 
"  O,  let  me  only  breathe  the  air. 

The  blessed  air,  that's  breathed  by  thee. 
And,  whether  on  its  wings  it  bear 

Heahng  or  death,  'tis  sweet  to  me  ! 
There,  —  drink  my  tears,  while  yet  they  fall,  - 

Would  that  my  bosom's  blood  were  balm. 
And,  well  thou  know'st,  I'd  shed  it  all 

To  give  thy  brow  one  minute's  calm. 
Nay,  turn  not  from  me  that  dear  face  — 

Am  I  not  thine,  —  thy  own  loved  bride, — 
The  one,  the  chosen  one,  whose  place 

In  life  or  death  is  by  thy  side  ? 
Think'st  thou  that  she,  whose  only  light, 

In  this  dim  world,  from  thee  hath  shone, 
Could  bear  the  long,  the  cheerless  night. 

That  must  be  hers  when  thou  art  gone  ? 
That  I  can  live,  and  let  thee  go, 
Who  art  my  life  itself? —  No,  no  — 
When  the  stem  dies,  the  leaf  that  grew 
Out  of  its  heart  must  perish  too ! 
Then  turn  to  me,  my  own  love,  turn, 
Before,  like  thee,  I  fade  and  burn  ; 
Cling  to  these  yet  cool  lips,  and  share 


THOMAS   MOORE.  ^  367 

The  last  pure  life  that  lingers  there  !  "  • 

She  fails,  —  she  sinks,  —  as  dies  the  lamp 

In  charnel  airs,  or  cavern  damp, 

So  quickly  do  his  baleful  sighs 

Quench  all  the  sweet  light  of  her  eyes. 

One  struggle,  and  his  pain  is  past  — 

Her  lover  is  no  longer  living  ! 
One  kiss  the  maiden  gives,  one  last. 

Long  kiss,  which  she  expires  in  giving  ! 

"  Sleep,"  said  the  Peri,  as  softly  she  stole 
The  farewell  sigh  of  that  vanishing  soul, 
As  true  as  e'er  warmed  a  woman's  breast  — 
"  Sleep  on,  in  visions  of  odor  rest. 
In  balmier  airs  than  ever  yet  stirred 
The  enchanted  pile  of  that  lonely  bird. 
Who  sings  at  the  last  his  own  death-lay,* 
And  in  music  and  perfume  dies  away  !  " 

Thus  saying,  from  her  lips  she  spread 

Unearthly  breathings  through  the  place, 
And  shook  her  sparkling  wreath,  and  shed 

Such  lustre  o'er  each  paly  face. 
That  like  two  lovely  saints  they  seemed, 

Upon  the  eve  of  doomsday  taken 
From  their  dim  graves,  in  odor  sleeping ; 

While  that  benevolent  Peri  beamed 
Like  their  good  angel,  calmly  keeping 

Watch  o'er  them  till  their  souls  would  waken. 

But  morn  is  blushing  in  the  sky  ; 

Again  the  Peri  soars  above. 
Bearing  to  Heaven  that  precious  sigh 

Of  pure,  self-sacrificing  love. 
High  throbbed  her  heart,  with  hope  elate, 

The  Elysian  palm  she  soon  shall  win, 
For  the  bright  Spirit  at  the  gate 

Smiled  as  she  gave  that  offering  in  ; 
And  she  already  hears  the  trees 

Of  Eden,  with  their  crystal  bells 

^  The  phoenix. 


368  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

Ringing  in  that  ambrosial  breeze 
That  from  the  throne  of  Alia  swells  ; 

And  she  can  see  the  starry  bowls 
That  lie  around  that  lucid  lake, 

Upon  whose  banks  admitted  Souls 
Their  first  sweet  draught  of  glory  take. 

But,  ah  !  even  Peris'  hopes  are  vain  — 

Again  the  Fates  forbade,  again 
The  immortal  barrier  closed  :  "  Not  yet," 

The  Angel  said,  as,  with  regret, 
He  shut  from  her  that  glimpse  of  glory  ; 
"  True  was  the  maiden,  and  her  story, 
Written  in  light  o'er  Alla's  head. 
By  seraph  eyes  shall  long  be  read. 
But,  Peri,  see  —  the  crystal  bar 
Of  Eden  moves  not  —  holier  far 
Than  even  this  sigh  the  boon  must  be 
That  opes  the  Gates  of  Heaven  for  thee." 

Now,  upon  Syria's  land  of  roses 
Softly  the  light  of  Eve  reposes. 
And,  like  a  glory,  the  broad  sun 
Hangs  over  sainted  Lebanon  ; 
Whose  head  in  wintry  grandeur  towers, 

And  whitens  with  eternal  sleet,- 
While  summer,  in  a  vale  of  flowers, 

Is  sleeping  rosy  at  his  feet. 

To  one,  who  looked  from  upper  air 
O'er  all  the  enchanted  regions  there. 
How  beauteous  must  have  been  the  glow, 
The  life,  the  sparkling  from  below  ! 
Fair  gardens,  shining  streams,  with  ranks 
Of  golden  melons  on  their  banks, 
More  golden  where  the  sunlight  falls  ; 
Gay  lizards,  glittering  on  the  walls 
Of  ruined  shrines,  busy  and  bright 
As  they  were  all  alive  with  light ; 
And,  yet  more  splendid,  numerous  flocks 
Of  pigeons,  settling  on  the  rocks, 


THOMAS   MOORE.  369 

With  their  rich  restless  wings  that  gleam 
Variously  in  the  crimson  beam 
Of  the  warm  west,  —  as  if  inlaid 
With  brilliants  from  the  mine,  or  made 
Of  tearless  rainbows,  such  as  span 
Th'  unclouded  skies  of  Peristan. 
And  then  the  mingling  sounds  that  come, 
Of  shepherd's  ancient  reed,  with  hum 
Of  the  wild  bees  of  Palestine, 

Banqueting  through  the  flowery  vales  ; 
And,  Jordan,  those  sweet  banks  of  thine, 

And  woods,  so  full  of  nightingales. 

But  nought  can  charm  the  luckless  Peri ; 
Her  soul  is  sad  —  her  wings  are  weary  — 
Joyless  she  sees  the  sun  look  down 
On  that  great  Temple,'  once  his  own. 
Whose  lonely  columns  stand  sublime, 

Flinging  their  shadows  from  on  high, 
Like  dials  which  the  wizard.  Time, 

Had  raised  to  count  his  ages  by  ! 
Yet  haply  there  may  lie  concealed 

Beneath  those  Chambers  of  the  Sun, 
Some  amulet  of  gems,  annealed 
In  upper  fires,  some  tablet  sealed 

With  the  great  name  of  Solomon, 

Which,  spelled  by  illumined  eyes, 
May  teach  her  where,  beneath  the  moon, 
In  earth  or  ocean,  lies  the  boon. 
The  charm,  that  can  restore  so  soon 

An  erring  Spirit  to  the  skies. 

Cheered  by  this  hope  she  bends  her  thither  5 

Still  laughs  the  radiant  eye  of  Heaven, 

Nor  have  the  golden  bowers  of  Even 
In  the  rich  west  begun  to  wither ; 
When,  o'er  the  vale  of  Balbec  winging 

Slowly,  she  sees  a  child  at  play. 
Among  the  rosy  wild  flowers  singing, 

As  rosy  and  as  wild  as  they  ; 

1  The  Temple  of  the  Sun  at  Baalbea 
24 


37C  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

Chasing,  with  eager  hands  and  eyes, 
The  beautiful  blue  damsel-flies. 
That  fluttered  round  the  jasmine  stems, 
Liked  winged  flowers  or  flying  gems  : 
And,  near  the  boy,  who,  tired  with  play, 
Now  nestling  'mid  the  roses  lay. 
She  saw  a  wearied  man  dismount 
From  his  hot  steed,  and  on  the  brink 
Of  a  small  imaret's  *  rustic  fount 
Impatient  fling  him  down  to  drink. 
Then  swift  his  haggard  brow  he  turned 

To  the  fair  child,  who  fearless  sat. 
Though  never  yet  hath  day-beam  burned 
Upon  a  brow  more  fierce  than  that,  — 
Sullenly  fierce,  —  a  mixture  dire. 
Like  thunder-clouds,  of  gloom  and  fire ;     * 
In  which  the  Peri's  eye  could  read 
Dark  tales  of  many  a  ruthless  deed ; 
The  ruined  maid  —  the  shrine  profaned  — 
Oaths  broken  —  and  the  threshold  stained 
With  blood  of  guests  !  —  there  written,  all 
Black  as  the  damning  drops  that  fall 
From  the  denouncing  Angel's  pen. 
Ere  Mercy  weeps  them  out  again. 

Yet  tranquil  now  that  man  of  crime 
(As  if  the  balmy  evening  time 
Softened  his  spirit)  looked  and  lay, 
Watching  the  rosy  infant's  play  : 
Though  still,  whene'er  his  eye  by  chance 
Fell  on  the  boy's,  its  lurid  glance 

Met  that  unclouded,  joyous  gaze. 
As  torches,  that  have  burnt  all  night 
Through  some  impure  and  godless  rite, 

Encounter  morning's  glorious  rays. 

But  hark  !  the  vesper  call  to  prayer, 
As  slow  the  orb  of  daylight  sets, 

Is  rising  sweetly  on  the  air, 

From  Syria's  thousand  minarets  ! 

1  A  place  of  entertainment  for  pilgrims. 


THOMAS   MOORE.  y/\ 

The  boy  has  started  from  the  bed    * 
Of  flowers,  where  he  had  laid  his  head, 
And  down  upon  the  fragrant  sod 

Kneels,  with  his  forehead  to  the  south, 
Lisping  the  eternal  name  of  God 

From  Purity's  own  cherub  mouth, 
And  looking,  while  his  hands  and  eyes 
Are  lifted  to  the  glowing  skies, 
Like  a  stray  babe  of  Paradise, 
Just  lighted  on  that  flowery  plain, 
And  seeking  for  its  home  again. 
O,  'twas  a  sight  —  that  heaven  —  that  child  — 
A  scene,  which  might  have  well  beguiled 
Even  haughty  Eblis  '  of  a  sigh 
For  glories  lost  and  peace  gone  by  ! 

And  how  felt  he,  the  wretched  man 

Reclining  there  —  while  memory  ran 

O'er  many  a  year  of  guilt  and  strife, 

Flew  o'er  the  dark  flood  of  his  life, 

Nor  found  one  sunny  resting-place. 

Nor  brought  him  back  one  branch  of  grace  ? 

"  There  was  a  time,"  he  said,  in  mild. 

Heart-humbled  tones,  "  thou  blessed  child, 

When,  young  and  haply  pure  as  thou, 

I  looked  and  prayed  like  thee  —  but  now  —  " 

He  hung  his  head  —  each  nobler  aim, 

And  hope,  and  feeling,  which  had  slept 
From  boyhood's  hour,  that  instant  came 

Fresh  o'er  him,  and  he  wept  —  he  wept ! 
Blest  tears  of  soul-felt  penitence  ! 

In  whose  benign,  redeeming  flow 
Is  felt  the  first,  the  only  sense 

Of  guiltless  joy  that  guilt  can  know. 

"  There's  a  drop,"  said  the  Peri,  "  that  down  from  the 

moon 
Falls  through  the  withering  airs  of  June 
Upon  Egypt's  land,  of  so  healing  a  power, 
So  balmy  a  virtue,  that  e'en  in  the  hour 

*  The  chief  of  evil  spirits. 


372  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

That  drop  descends,  contagion  dies, 
And  health  reanimates  earth  and  skies  ! 
O,  is  it  not  thus,  thou  man  of  sin. 

The  precious  tears  of  repentance  fall  ? 
Though  foul  thy  fiery  plagues  within. 

One  heavenly  drop  hath  dispelled  them  all !  " 

And  now  —  behold  him  kneeling  there 
By  the  child's  side,  in  humble  prayer. 
While  the  same  sunbeam  shines  upon 
The  guilty  and  the  guiltless  one. 
And  hymns  of  joy  proclaim  through  heaven 
The  triumph  of  a  Soul  Forgiven  ! 
'Twas  when  the  golden  orb  had  set, 
While  on  their  knees  they  lingered  yet, 
There  fell  a  light  more  lovely  far 
Than  ever  came  from  sun  or  star. 
Upon  the  tear  that,  warm  and  meek, 
Dewed  that  repentant  sinner's  cheek. 
To  mortal  eye  this  light  might  seem 
A  northern  flash  or  meteor  beam  ; 
But  well  the  enraptured  Peri  knew 
'Twas  a  bright  smile  the  Angel  threw 
From  heaven's  gate,  to  hail  that  tear 
Her  harbinger  of  glory  near  ! 

"  Joy,  joy  forever  !  my  task  is  done. 

The  Gates  are  passed,  and  heaven  is  won  ! 

O,  am  I  not  happy  ?  I  am,  I  am  ; 

To  thee,  sweet  Eden  !  how  dark  and  sad 
Are  the  diamond  turrets  of  Shadukiam,  * 

And  the  fragrant  bowers  of  Amberabad  !  ^ 
Farewell,  ye  odors  of  earth,  that  die 
Passing  away  like  a  lovers  sigh  ; 
My  feast  is  now  of  the  Tooba  Tree,' 
Whose  scent  is  the  breath  of  Eternity  ! 
Farewell,  ye  vanishing  flowers,  that  shone 

In  my  fairy  wreath,  so  bright  and  brief; 
O,  what  are  the  brightest  that  e'er  have  blown 

1  Cities  in  fairy  land.  A  tree  in  Mohammed's  garden  in  Paradise. 


THOMAS   MOORE. 


373 


To  the  lote-tree,  springing  by  Alla's  throne, 
Whose  flowers  have  a  soul  in  every  leaf? 
Joy,  joy  forever  !  my  task  is  done. 
The  Gates  are  passed,  and  heaven  is  won  !  " 


THE  TURF  SHALL  BE  MY  FRAGRANT  SHRINE. 

The  turf  shall  be  my  fragrant  shrine  ; 
My  temple,  Lord,  that  arch  of  thine  ; 
My  censer's  breath  the  mountain  airs, 
And  silent  thoughts  my  only  prayers. 

My  choir  shall  be  the  moonlight  waves. 
When  murmuring  homeward  to  their  caves, 
Or  when  the  stillness  of  the  sea. 
Even  more  than  music,  breathes  of  Thee. 

I'll  seek  by  day  some  glade  unknown, 
All  light  and  silence,  like  thy  throne. 
And  the  pale  stars  shall  be  at  night 
The  only  eyes  that  watch  my  rite. 

Thy  heaven,  on  which  'tis  bliss  to  look. 
Shall  be  my  pure  and  shiming  book, 
Where  I  shall  read  in  words  of  flame 
The  glories  of  thy  wondrous  name. 

I'll  read  thy  anger  in  the  rack 

That  clouds  a  while  the  day-beam's  track  ; 

Thy  mercy  in  the  azure  hue 

Of  sunny  brightness  breaking  through. 

There's  nothing  bright  above,  below. 
From  flowers  that  bloom  to  stars  that  glow, 
But  in  its  light  my  soul  can  see 
Some  feature  of  the  Deity. 

There's  nothing  dark  below,  above, 
But  in  its  gloom  I  trace  thy  love. 
And  meekly  wait  that  moment  when 
Thy  touch  shall  turn  all  bright  again. 


374  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 


O,  BREATHE   NOT   HIS   NAME. 

O,  BREATHE  not  his  name  ;  let  it  sleep  in  the  shade 
Where  cold  and  unhonored  his  rehcs  are  laid  : 
Sad,  silent,  and  dark  be  the  tears  that  we  shed, 
As  the  night-dew  that  falls  on  the  grass  o'er  his  head. 

But  the  night-dew  that  falls,  though  in  silence  it  weeps, 
Shall  brighten  with  verdure  the  grave  where  he  sleeps. 
And  the  tear  that  we  shed,  though  in  secret  it  rolls, 
Shall  long  keep  his  memory  green  in  our  souls. 


ON   MUSIC. 

When  through  life  unblest  we  rove, 
Losing  all  that  made  life  dear. 
Should  some  notes  we  used  to  love 
In  days  of  boyhood  meet  our  ear, 
O,  how  welcome  breathes  the  strain  ! 
Wakening  thoughts  that  long  have  slept, 
Kindling  former  smiles  again 
In  faded  eyes  that  long  have  wept. 

Like  the  gale  that  sighs  along 

Beds  of  Oriental  flowers 

Is  the  grateful  breath  of  song 

That  once  was  heard  in  happier  hours  ; 

Filled  with  balm  the  gale  sighs  on, 

Though  the  flowers  have  sunk  in  death  ; 

So,  when  pleasure's  dream  is  gone, 

Its  memory  lives  in  Music's  breath. 

Music  —  O,  how  faint,  how  weak, 

Language  fades  before  thy  spell ! 

Why  should  Feeling  ever  speak 

When  thou  canst  breathe  her  soul  so  well  ? 

Friendship's  balmy  words  may  feign  ; 

Love's  are  even  more  false  than  they. 

O,  'tis  only  Music's  strain 

Can  sweetly  soothe  and  not  betray. 


THOMAS   CHALMERS.  375 


THOMAS   CHALMERS,    D.  D. 

Thomas  Chalmers  was  born  in  the  County  of  Fife,  in  Scotland,  March  17,  1780.  He 
was  educated  at  the  College  of  St.  Andrew's,  and  was  ordained  a  minister  in  a  parish  of  his 
native  county  in  1802.  He  removed  in  1815  to  Glasgow,  where  he  preached  until  1823, 
when  he  became  professor  of  moral  philosophy  at  St.  Andrew's.  In  1828  he  was  called  to 
the  chair  of  divinity  in  the  University  of  Edinburgh,  which  he  filled  until  his  secession 
from  the  established  church  in  1843.  He  died  in  May,  1847.  His  collected  works  com- 
prised twenty-five  volumes,  chiefly  sermons,  essays,  and  lectures  ;  and  after  his  death  nine 
additional  volumes  were  gathered.  Probably  no  preacher  in  his  day  produced  a  more 
profound  impression.  His  mind  was  active,  fiery,  vehement.  Jeffrey  said,  "He  buried 
his  adversaries  under  the  fragments  of  burning  mountains."  When  he  preached  in  Lon- 
don, the  church  was  thronged  by  the  most  eminent  men.  Mr.  Canning  s^id,  "  The  tartan 
beats  us;  we  iiave  no  preaching  like  that  in  England."  In  the  multitude  of  his  labors 
Dr.  Chalmers  had  little  time  to  cultivate  a  critical  elegance  of  style  ;  but  liis  deep  feeling, 
ardent  piety,  native  eloquence,  and  vigor  place  him  among  the  most  eminent  of  clerical 
authors. 

CRUELTY   TO   ANIMALS. 

The  sufferings  of  the  lower  animals  may,  when  out  of  sight,  be 
out  of  mind.  But  more  than  this,  these  sufferings  may  be  in  sight, 
and  yet  out  of  mind.  This  is  strikingly  exemplified  in  the  sports 
of  the  field,  in  the  midst  of  whose  varied  and  animating  bustle,  that 
cruelty  which  all  along  is  present  to  the  senses  may  not  for  one  mo- 
ment have  been  present  to  the  thoughts.  There  sits  a  somewhat 
ancestral  dignity  and  glory  on  this  favorite  pastime  of  joyous  old 
England  ;  when  the  gallant  knighthood,  and  the  hearty  yeomen, 
and  the  amateurs  or  virtuosos  of  the  chase,  and  the  full  assembled 
jockeyship  of  half  a  province,  muster  together  in  all  the  pride  and 
pageantry  of  their  great  emprise  —  and  the  panorama  of  some  noble 
landscape,  lighted  up  with  autumnal  clearness  from  an  unclouded 
heaven,  pours  fresh  exhilaration  into  every  blithe  and  choice  spirit 
of  the  scene  —  and  every  adventurous  heart  is  braced,  and  impatient 
for  the  hazards  of  the  coming  enterprise  ;  and  even  the  high-breathed 
coursers  catch  the  general  sympathy,  and  seem  to  fret  in  all  the 
restiveness  of  their  yet  checked  and  irritated  fire,  till  the  echoing 
horn  shall  set  them  at  Hberty  —  even  that  horn  which  is  the  knell 
of  death  to  some  trembling  victim  now  brought  forth  of  its  lurking- 
place  to  the  delighted  gaze,  and  borne  down  upon  with  the  full  and 
open  cry  of  its  ruthless  pursuers.  Be  assured  that,  amid  the  whole 
glee  and  fervency  of  this  tumultuous  enjoytnent,  there  might  not, 
in  one  single  bosom,  be  aught  so  fiendish  as  a  principle  of  naked 
and  abstract  cruelty.  The  fear  which  gives  its  lightning-speed  to  the 
unhappy  animal  ;   the  thickening  horrors,  which,  in  the  progress 


37^  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

of  exhaustion,  must  gather  upon  its  flight ;  its  gradually  sinking 
energies,  and,  at  length,  the  terrible  certainty  of  that  destruction 
which  is  awaiting  it ;  that  piteous  cry  which  the  ear  can  some- 
times distinguish  amid  the  deafening  clamor  of  the  blood-hounds 
as  they  spring  exultingly  upon  their  prey  ;  the  dread  massacre  and 
dying  agonies  of  a  creature  so  miserably  torn,  —  all  this  weight  of 
suffering,  we  admit,  is  not  once  sympathized  with  ;  but  it  is  just 
because  the  suiTering  itself  is  not  once  thought  of.  It  touches  not 
the  sensibilities  of  the  heart  ;  but  just  because  it  is  never  present 
to  the  notice  of  the  mind.  We  allow  that  the  hardy  followers  in 
the  wild  romance  of  this  occupation,  we  allow  them  to  be  reckless 
of  pain  ;  but  this  is  not  rejoicing  in  pain.  Theirs  is  not  the  de- 
light of  the  savage,  but  the  apathy  of  unreflecting  creatures.  They 
are  wholly  occupied  with  the  chase  itself  and  its  spirit-stirring  ac- 
companiments, nor  bestow  one  moment's  thought  on  the  dread 
violence  of  that  infliction  upon  sentient  nature  which  marks  its  ter- 
mination. It  is  the  spirit  of  the  competition,  and  it  alone,  which 
goads  onward  this  hurrying  career  ;  and  even  he  who  in  at  the 
death  is  foremost  in  the  triumph,  although  to  him  the  death  itself 
is  in  sight,  the  agony  of  its  wretched  sufferer  is  wholly  out  of  mind. 
Man  is  the  direct  agent  of  a  wide  and  continual  distress  to  the 
lower  animals  ;  and  the  question  is.  Can  any  method  be  devised  for 
its  alleviation  ?  On  this  subject  that  scriptural  image  is  strikingly 
realized :  "  the  whole  ijiferior  creation  groanifig  and  travailing  to- 
gether in  pain  "  because  of  him.-  It  signifies  not  to  the  substantive 
amount  of  the  suffering,  whether  this  be  prompted  by  the  hardness 
of  his  heart,  or  only  permitted  through  the  heedlessness  of  his 
mind.  In  either  way  it  holds  true,  not  only  that  the  arch-devourer 
man  stands  pre-eminent  over  the  fiercest  children  of  the  wilderness 
as  an  animal  of  prey,  but  that,  for  his  lordly  and  luxurious  appetite,  as 
well  as  for  his  service  or  merest  curiosity  and  amusement,  Nature 
must  be  ransacked  throughout  all  her  elements.  Rather  than  fore- 
go the  veriest  gratifications  of  vanity,  he  will  wring  them  from  the 
anguish  of  wretched  and  ill-fated  creatures  ;  and  whether  for  the 
indulgence  of  his  barbaric  sensuality  or  barbaric  splendor,  can  stalk 
paramount  over  the  sufferings  of  that  prostrate  creation  which  has 
been  placed  beneath  his  feet.  That  beauteous  domain,  whereof 
he  has  been  constituted  the  terrestrial  sovereign,  gives  out  so  many 
blissful  and  benignant  aspects  ;  and  whether  we  look  to  its  peaceful 
lakes,  or  to  its  flowery  landscapes,  or  its  evening  skies,  or  to  all 
that  soft  attire  which  overspreads  the  hills  and  the  valleys,  lighted 


THOMAS   CHALMERS.  THl 

up  by  smiles  of  sweetest  sunshine,  and  where  animals  disport  them- 
selves in  all  the  exuberance  of  gayety,  —  this  surely  were  a  more 
befitting  scene  for  the  rule  of  clemency,  than  for  the  iron  rod  of 
a  murderous  and  remorseless  tyrant.  But  the  present  is  a  myste- 
rious world  wherein  we  dwell.  It  still  bears  much  upon  its  mate- 
rialism of  the  impress  of  Paradise.  But  a  breath  from  the  air  of 
Pandemonium  has  gone  over  its  living  generations  ;  and  so  "  the 
fear  of  man  and  the  dread  of  man  is  now  upon  every  beast  of  the 
earth,  and  upon  every  fowl  of  the  air,  and  upon  all  that  moveth 
upon  the  earth,  and  upon  all  the  fishes  of  the  sea  ;  into  man's  hands 
are  they  delivered  :  every  moving  thing  that  liveth  is  meat  for  him  ; 
yea,  even  as  the  green  herbs,  there  have  been  given  to  him  all  things." 
Such  is  the  extent  of  his  jurisdiction,  and  with  most  full  and  wan- 
ton license  has  he  revelled  among  its  privileges.  The  whole  earth 
labors  and  is  in  violence  because  of  his  cruelties  ;  and  from  the 
amphitheatre  of  sentient  Nature  there  sounds  in  fancy's  ear  the 
bleat  of  one  wide  and  universal  suffering  —  a  dreadful  homage  to 
the  power  of  Nature's  constituted  lord. 

These  suiferings  are  really  felt.  The  beasts  of  the  field  are  not 
so  many  automata  without  sensation,  and  just  so  constructed  as  to 
give  forth  all  the  natural  signs  and  expressions  of  it.  Nature  hath 
not  practised  this  universal  deception  upon  our  species.  These 
poor  animals  just  look,  and  tremble,  and  give  forth  the  very  indica- 
tions of  suffering  that  we  do.  Theirs  is  the  unequivocal  physiogno- 
my of  pain.  They  put  on  the  same  aspect  of  terror  on  the  dem- 
onstrations of  a  menaced  blow.  They  exhibit  the  same  distortions 
of  agony  after  the  infliction  of  it.  The  bruise,  or  the  burn,  or  the 
fracture,  or  the  deep  incision,  or  the  fierce  encounter  with  one  of 
equal  or  superior  strength  just  affects  them  similarly  to  ourselves. 
Their  blood  circulates  as  ours.  They  have  pulsations  in  various 
parts  of  the  body  like  ours.  They  sicken,  and  they  grow  feeble  with 
age,  and,  finally,  they  die,  just  as  we  do.  They  possess  the  same 
feelings  ;  and,  what  exposes  them  to  like  suffering  from  another 
quarter,  they  possess  the  same  instincts  with  our  own  species.  The 
lioness  robbed  of  her  whelps  causes  the  wilderness  to  ring  aloud 
with  the  proclamation  of  her  wrongs  ;  or  the  bird  whose  little  house- 
hold has  been  stolen  fills  and  saddens  all  the  grove  with  melodies 
of  deepest  pathos.  All  this  is  palpable  even  to  the  general  and 
unlearned  eye  :  and  when  the  physiologist  lays  open  the  recesses  of 
their  system  by  means  of  that  scalpel  under  whose  operation  they 
just  shrink  and  are  convulsed  as  any  living  subject  of  our  own  spe- 


3/3  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

cies,  there  stands  forth  to  view  the  same  sentient  apparatus,  and 
furnished  with  the  same  conductors  for  the  transmission  of  feeling 
to  every  minutest  pore  upon  the  surface.  Theirs  is  unmixed  and 
unmitigated  pain  —  the  agonies  of  martyrdom  without  the  allevia- 
tion of  the  hopes  and  the  sentiments  whereof  they  are  incapable. 
When  they  lay  them  down  to  die,  their  only  fellowship  is  with  suf- 
fering ;  for  in  the  prison-house  of  their  beset  and  bounded  faculties 
there  can  no  relief  be  afforded  by  communion  with  other  interests 
or  other  things.  The  attention  does  not  lighten  their  distress  as  it 
does  that  of  man,  by  carrying  off  his  spirit  from  that  existing  pun- 
gency and  pressure  which  might  else  be  overwhelming.  There  is 
but  room  in  their  mysterious  economy  for  one  inmate,  and  that  is, 
the  absorbing  sense  of  their  own  single  and  concentrated  anguish. 
And  so  in  that  bed  of  torment  whereon  the  wounded  animal  lin- 
gers and  expires,  there  is  an  unexplored  depth  and  intensity  of 
suffering  which  the  poor  dumb  animal  itself  cannot  tell,  and  against 
which  it  can  offer  no  remonstrance — an  untold  and  unknown 
amount  of  wretchedness  of  which  no  articulate  voice  gives  utter- 
ance. But  there  is  an  eloquence  in  its  silence  ;  and  the  very  shroud 
which  disguises  it  only  serves  to  aggravate  its  horrors. 

GRANDEUR   OF   THE   UNIVERSE. 

Though  the  earth  were  to  be  burned  up,  though  the  trumpet 
of  its  dissolution  were  sounded,  though  yon  sky  were  to  pass  away 
as  a  scroll,  and  every  visible  glory  which  the  finger  of  the  Divinity 
has  inscribed  on  it  were  extinguished  forever,  —  an  event  so  awful  to 
us,  and  to  every  world  in  our  vicinity,  by  which  so  many  suns  would 
be  extinguished,  and  so  many  varied  scenes  of  life  and  population 
would  rush  into  forgetfulness, — what  is  it  in  the  high  scale  of  the 
Almighty's  workmanship  ?  A  mere  shred,  which,  though  scattered 
into  nothing,  would  leave  the  universe  of  God  one  entire  scene  of 
greatness  and  of  majesty. 

Though  the  earth  and  the  heavens  were  to  disappear,  there  are 
other  worlds  which  roll  afar ;  the  light  of  other  suns  shines  upon 
them  ;  and  the  sky  which  mantles  them  is  garnished  with  other 
stars.  Is  it  presumption  to  say  that  the  moral  world  extends  to  these 
distant  and  unknown  regions  ?  that  they  are  occupied  with  people  ? 
that  the  charities  of  home  and  of  neighborhood  flourish  there  ?  that 
the  praises  of  God  are  there  lifted  up,  and  his  goodness  rejoiced  in  ? 
that  there  piety  has  its  temples  and  its  offerings  ?  and  the  richness 
of  the  divine  attributes  is  there  felt  and  admired  by  intelligent  wor- 
shippers. 


LEIGH   HUNT.  379 


LEIGH   HUNT. 

Leigh  Hunt  was  born  in  1784,  and  was  a  school-fellow  with  Charles  Lamb  at  Christ's 
Hospital.  He  wrote  theatrical  criticisms  for  a  newspaper  while  still  a  youth,  and  after- 
wards aided  in  establishing  The  Examiner.  For  an  alleged  libel  on  the  Prince  Regent  he 
was  sentenced  to  imprisonment  for  two  years.  The  poet's  happy  temper,  and  the  care  of 
kind  friends,  especially  of  Moore  and  Byron,  made  his  jail  apartments  a  very  comfortable 
as  well  as  picturesque  residence.  After  his  release  he  published  his  principal  poem,  ihi 
Story  of  Rimini.  His  poems  contain  many  fine  passages,  for  he  had  a  lively  fancy  and  an 
artistic  touch ;  but  they  do  not,  as  a  whole,  rise  above  a  respectable  level.  Two  fortunate 
poetical  thoughts  of  his  will  live  —  the  constantly-quoted  Abou  Ben  Adhem,  and  The  Grass- 
hopper and  Cricket.  His  best  prose  essays  are  contained  in  a  volume  entitled  The  Indi- 
cator and  Companion,  from  which  the  specimens  that  follow  are  taken. 

Leigh  Hunt  was  a  writer  by  profession ;  any  respectable  literary  work  that  would  sell  he 
was  ready  to  do  ;  and,  as  he  was  always  in  deplorably  straitened  circumstances,  the  list  of 
his  works  would  be  long  and  unprofitable.  It  has  been  more  than  suspected  that  the  pe- 
cuniary theory  and  practice  of  Harold  Skhnpole,  as  well  as  his  naive  sybaritism,  were 
drawn  by  Dickens  fi-om  the  personal  history  of  this  lively  author.  He  received  a  pension 
of  two  hundred  pounds  in  1847,  and  died  at  Kensington  in  1859. 

MY  BOOKS. 

Sitting,  last  winter,  among  my  books,  and  walled  round  with  all 
the  comfort  and  protection  which  they  and  my  fireside  could  afford 
me,  to  wit,  a  table  of  high-piled  books  at  my  back,  my  writing-desk 
on  one  side  of  me,  some  shelves  on  the  other,  and  the  feeling  of  the 
warm  fire  at  my  feet,  I  began  to  consider  how  I  loved  the  authors 
of  those  books  ;  how  I  loved  them,  too,  not  only  for  the  imagina- 
tive pleasures  they  afforded  me,  but  for  their  making  me  love  the 
very  books  themselves,  and  delight  to  be  in  contact  with  them.  I 
looked  sideways  at  my  Spenser,  my  Theocritus,  and  my  Arabian 
Nights  ;  then  above  them  at  my  Italian  poets  ;  then  behind  me  at 
my  Dryden  and  Pope,  my  romances,  and  my  Boccaccio  ;  then  on  my 
left  side  at  my  Chaucer,  who  lay  on  a  writing-desk,  —  and  thought  how 
natural  it  was  in  C.  L.  to  give  a  kiss  to  an  old  folio,  as  I  once  saw 
him  do  to  Chapman's  Homer. 

I  intrench  myself  in  my  books  equally  against  sorrow  and  the 
weather.  If  the  wind  comes  through  a  passage,  I  look  about  to  see 
how  I  can  fence  it  off  by  a  better  disposition  of  my  movables  ;  if 
a  melancholy  thought  is  importunate,  I  give  another  glance  at  my 
Spenser.  When  I  speak  of  being  in  contact  with  my  books,  I  mean 
it  literally.  I  like  to  lean  my  head  against  them.  Living  in  a  south- 
ern climate,  though  in  a  part  sufficiently  northern  to  feel  the  winter, 
I  was  obliged,  during  that  season,  to  take  some  of  the  books  out  of 


38o  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

the  study,  and  hang  them  up  near  the  fireplace  in  the  sitting-room, 
which  is  the  only  room  that  has  such  a  convenience.  I  therefore 
walled  myself  in,  as  well  as  I  could,  in  the  manner  above  mentioned. 
I  took  a  walk  every  day,  to  the  astonishment  of  the  Genoese,  who 
used  to  huddle  against  a  bit  of  sunny  wall  like  flies  on  a  chimney- 
piece  ;  but  I  did  this  only  that  I  might  so  much  the  more  enjoy  my 
English  evening.  The  fire  was  a  wood  fire,  instead  of  a  coal ;  but  I 
imagined  myself  in  the  country.  I  remembered,  at  the  very  worst, 
that  one  end  of  my  native  land  was  not  nearer  the  other  than  Eng- 
land is  to  Italy. 

While  writing  this  article  I  am  in  my  study  again.  Like  the 
rooms  in  all  houses  in  this  country  which  are  not  hovels,  it  is  hand- 
some and  ornamented.  On  one  side  it  looks  towards  a  garden  and 
mountains  ;  on  another  to  the  mountains  and  the  sea.  What  signi- 
fies all  this  ?  I  turn  my  back  upon  the  sea,  I  shut  up  even  one  of 
the  side  windows  looking  upon  the  mountains,  and  retain  no  pros- 
pect but  that  of  the  trees.  On  the  right  and  left  of  me  s.r'^  book- 
shelves ;  a  book-case  is  affectionately  open  in  front  of  me  ;  aud  thus 
kindly  enclosed  with  my  books  and  the  green  leaves,  I  write.  If 
all  this  is  too  luxurious  and  effeminate,  of  all  luxuries  it  is  the  one 
that  leaves  you  the  most  strength  ;  and  this  is  to  be  said  for  scholar- 
ship in  general. 

I  do  not  like  this  fine  large  study.  I  like  elegance.  I  like  room 
to  breathe  in,  and  even  walk  about,  when  I  want  to  breathe  and 
walk  about.  I  like  a  great  library  next  my  study  ;  but  for  the  study 
itself,  give  me  a  small,  snug  place,  almost  entirely  walled  with  books. 
There  should  be  only  one  window  in  it,  looking  upon  trees.  Some 
prefer  a  place  with  few  or  no  books  at  all  —  nothing  but  a  chair  or  a 
table,  like  Epictetus  ;  but  I  should  say  that  these  were  philosophers, 
not  lovers  of  books,  if  I  did  not  recollect  that  Montaigne  was  both. 
He  had  a  study  in  a  round  tower,  walled  as  aforesaid.  It  is  true  one 
forgets  one's  books  while  writing — at  least  they  say  so.  For  my 
part,  I  think  I  have  them  in  a  sort  of  sidelong  mind's  eye  ;  like  a 
second  thought,  which  is  none  —  like  a  waterfall,  or  a  whispering 
wind. 

I  love  an  author  the  more  for  having  been  himself  a  lover  of  books. 
The  idea  of  an  ancient  library  perplexes  our  sympathy  by  its  map- 
like volumes,  rolled  upon  cylinders.  Our  imagination  cannot  take 
kindly  to  a  yard  of  wit,  or  to  thirty  inches  of  moral  observation, 
rolled  out  like  linen  in  a  draper's  shop.  But  we  conceive  of  Plato 
as  a  lover  of  books  ;    of  Aristotle  certainly ;    of  Plutarch,   PHny, 


LEIGH    HUNT.  381 

Horace,  Julian,  and  Marcus  Aurelius.  Virgil,  too,  must  have  been 
one  ;  and,  after  a  fashion,  Martial.  May  I  confess,  that  the  passage 
which  I  recollect  with  the  greatest  pleasure  in  Cicero  is  where  he 
says  that  books  delight  us  at  home,  and  are  no  impediment  abroad  ; 
travel  with  us,  ruralize  with  us  ?  His  period  is  rounded  off  to  some 
purpose — '■'■  Delectant  domi,  non  hnpediimt  foris ;  peregrinantur, 
rusticanttcr.''''  I  am  so  much  of  this  opinion  that  I  do  not  care  to 
be  anywhere  without  having  a  book  or  books  at  hand,  and,  like  Dr. 
Orkborne  in  the  novel  of  Camilla,  stuff  the  coach  or  post-chaise  with 
them  whenever  I  travel.  As  books,  however,  become  ancient,  the 
love  of  them  becomes  more  unequivocal  and  conspicuous.  The  an- 
cients had  little  of  what  we  call  learning.  They  made  it.  They 
were  also  no  very  eminent  buyers  of  books  —  they  made  books  for 
posterity. 

It  is  true  that  it  is  not  at  all  necessary  to  love  many  books  in  or- 
der to  love  them  much.  The  scholar,  in  Chaucer,  who  would  rather 
have 

"at  his  beddes  head 
A  twenty  bokes,  clothed  in  black  and  red, 
Of  Aristotle  and  his  philosophy, 
Than  robes  rich,  or  fiddle,  or  psaltrie," 

doubtless  beat  all  our  modern  collectors  in  his  passion  for  reading ; 
but  books  must  at  least  exist,  and  have  acquired  an  eminence,  be- 
fore their  lovers  can  make  themselves  known. 

How  pleasant  it  is  to  reflect  that  all  these  lovers  of  books  have 
themselves  become  books !  What  better  metamorphosis  could 
Pythagoras  have  desired !  How  Ovid  and  Horace  exulted  in  an- 
ticipating theirs  !  And  how  the  world  have  justified  their  exulta- 
tion !  They  had  a  right  to  triumph  over  brass  and  marble.  It  is 
the  only  visible  change  which  changes  no  farther  ;  which  generates, 
and  yet  is  not  destroyed.  Consider :  minds  themselves  are  ex- 
hausted ;  cities  perish  ;  kingdoms  are  swept  away;  and  man  weeps 
with  indignation  to  think  that  his  own  body  is  not  immortal. 

"  Muoiono  le  citti,  muoiono  i  regni, 
E  1'  uom  d'  esser  mortal  par  che  si  sdegni."* 

Yet  this  little  body  of  thought,  that  lies  before  me  in  the  shape  of  a 
book,  has  existed  thousand  of  years,  nor  since  the  invention  of  the 
press  can  anything  short  of  a  universal  convulsion  of  nature  abol- 
ish it.  To  a  shape  like  this  —  so  small,  yet  so  comprehensive  ;  so 
slight,  yet  so  lasting;  so  insignificant,  yet  so  venerable  —  turns  the 
*  See  Appendix. 


382  HAND-BOOK    OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

mighty  activity  of  Homer,  and  so  turning  is  enabled  to  live  and 
warm  us  forever.  To  a  shape  like  this  turns  the  placid  sage  of 
Academus  ;  to  a  shape  like  this  the  grandeur  of  Milton,  the  exuber- 
ance of  Spenser,  the  pungent  elegance  of  Pope,  and  the  volatility 
of  Prior.  In  one  small  room,  like  the  compressed  spirits  of  Milton, 
can  be  gathered  together 

"The  assembled  souls  of  all  that  men  held  wise. " 

May  I  hope  to  become  the  meanest  of  these  existences  ?  This  is  a 
question  which  every  author  who  is  a  lover  of  books  asks  himself 
some  time  in  his  life,  and  which  must  be  pardoned,  because  it  can- 
not be  helped,  I  know  not.  I  cannot  exclaim  with  the  poet,  "  O 
that  my  name  were  numbered  among  theirs  !  "  Then  gladly  would 
I  end  my  mortal  days  ;  for  my  mortal  days,  few  and  feeble  as  the 
rest  of  them  may  be,  are  of  consequence  to  others.  But  I  should 
like  to  remain  visible  in  this  shape.  The  little  of  myself  that  pleases 
myself  I  could  wish  to  be  accounted  worth  pleasing  others.  I 
should  like  to  survive  so,  were  it  only  for  the  sake  of  those  who 
love  me  in  private,  knowing  as  I  do  what  a  treasure  is  the  posses- 
sion of  a  friend's  mind  when  he  is  no  more.  At  all  events,  nothing, 
while  I  live  and  think,  can  deprive  me  of  my  value  for  such  treas- 
nres.  I  can  help  the  appreciation  of  them  while  I  last,  and  love 
them  till  I  die  ;  and,  perhaps,  if  Fortune  turns  her  face  once  more  in 
kindness  upon  me  before  I  go,  I  may  chance,  some  quiet  day,  to  lay 
my  overheating  temples  on  a  book,  and  so  have  the  death  I  most  envy. 


THE   GRACES    AND   ANXIETIES   OF   PIG-DRIVING. 

From  the  perusal  of  this  article  we  beg  leave  to  warn  off  vulgar 
readers  of  all  denominations,  whether  of  the  "  great  vulgar  or  the 
small."  Warn,  did  we  say?  We  drive  them  off;  for  Horace  tells 
us  that  they,  as  well  as  pigs,  are  to  be  so  treated.  "  Odi  profanum 
vjilgiis,""  says  he,  "  et  arceoP  But  do  thou  lend  thine  ear,  gentle 
shade  of  Goldsmith,  who  didst  make  thy  bear-leader  denounce  "  ev- 
erything as  is  low  ;  "  and  thou,  Steele,  who  didst  humanize  upon 
public  houses  and  puppet-shows  ;  and.  Fielding,  thou  whom  the 
great  Richardson,  less  in  that  matter,  and  some  others,  than  thyself, 
did  accuse  of  vulgarity,  because  thou  didst  discern  natural  gentility 
in  a  footman,  and  yet  was  not  to  be  taken  in  by  the  airs  of  Pamela 
and  my  Lady  G. 

The  title  is  a  little  startling  ;  but  "  style  and  sentiment."  as  a  lady 


LEIGH    HUNT.  383 

said,  "  can  do  anything."  Remember,  then,  gentle  reader,  that  tal- 
ents are  not  to  be  despised  in  the  humblest  walks  of  life ;  we  will 
add,  nor  in  the  muddiest.  The  other  day  we  happened  to  be  among 
a  set  of  spectators  who  could  not  help  stopping  to  admire  the  pa- 
tience and  address  with  which  a  pig-driver  huddled  and  cherished 
onward  his  drove  of  unaccommodating  eleves  down  a  street  in  the 
suburbs.  He  was  a  born  genius  for  a  manoeuvre.  Had  he  originat- 
ed in  a  higher  sphere,  he  would  have  been  a  general  or  a  stage  man- 
ager, or,  at  least,  the  head  of  a  set  of  monks.  Conflicting  interests 
were  his  forte  ;  pig-headed  wills  and  proceedings,  hopeless.  To  see 
the  ha7idvf\\h  which  he  did  it  !  How  hovering,  yet  firm  !  how  en- 
couraging, yet  compelling !  how  indicative  of  the  space  on  each  side 
of  him,  and  yet  of  the  line  before  him  !  how  general  !  how  particu- 
lar !  how  perfect  !  No  barber's  could  quiver  about  a  head  with  more 
lightness  of  apprehension,  no  cook's  pat  up  and  proportion  the  side 
of  a  pasty  with  a  more  final  eye.  "  The  whales,"  quoth  old  Chap- 
man, speaking  of  Neptune,  — 

"  The  whales  exulted  under  him,  and  knew  their  mighty  king. " 

The  pigs  did  not  exult,  but  they  knew  their  king.  Unwilling  was 
their  subjection,  but  "  more  in  sorrow  than  in  anger."  They  were 
too  far  gone  for  rage.  Their  case  was  hopeless.  They  did  not  see 
why  they  should  proceed,  but  they  felt  themselves  bound  to  do  so  — 
forced,  conglomerated,  crowded  onwards,  irresistibly  impelled  by 
fate  and  Jenkins.  .  Often  would  they  have  bolted  under  any  other 
master.  They  squeaked  and  grunted,  as  in  ordinary ;  they  sidled, 
they  shuffled,  they  half  stopped ;  they  turned  an  eye  to  all  the  little 
outlets  of  escape  ;  but  in  vain.  There  they  stuck,  — for  their  very 
progress  was  a  sort  of  sticking, — charmed  into  the  centre  of  his 
sphere  of  action  ;  laying  their  heads  together,  but  to  no  purpose  ; 
looking  all  as  if  they  were  shrugging  their  shoulders,  and  eschewing 
the  tip  end  of  the  whip  of  office.  Much  eye  had  they  to  their  left 
leg  ;  shrewd  backward  glances  ;  not  a  little  anticipative  squeak,  and 
sudden  rush  of  avoidance.  It  was  a  superfluous  clutter,  and  they 
felt  it ;  but  a  pig  finds  it  more  difficult  than  any  other  animal  to  ac- 
commodate himself  to  circumstances.  Being  out  of  his  pale,  he  is 
in  the  highest  state  of  wonderment  and  inaptitude.  He  is  sluggish, 
obstinate,  opinionate,  not  very  social ;  has  no  desire  of  seeing  for- 
eign parts.  Think  of  him  in  a  multitude,  forced  to  travel,  and  won- 
dering what  the  devil  it  is  that  drives  him  !  Judge  by  this  of  the 
talents  of  his  driver. 


384  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

We  beheld  a  man  once  —  an  inferior  genius — inducting  a  pig 
into  the  other  end  of  Long  Lane,  Smithfield.  He  had  got  him  thus 
far  towards  the  market.  It  was  much.  His  air  announced  success 
in  nine  parts  out  of  ten,  and  hope  for  the  remainder.  It  had  been  a 
happy  morning's  work ;  he  had  only  to  look  for  the  termination  of 
it ;  and  he  looked,  as  a  critic  of  an  exalted  turn  of  mind  would  say, 
in  brightness  and  in  joy.  Then  would  he  go  to  the  public  house, 
and  indulge  in  porter  and  a  pleasing  security.  Perhaps  he  would 
not  say  much,  at  first,  being  oppressed  with  the  greatness  of  his 
success  ;  but,  by  degrees,  especially  if  interrogated,  he  would  open, 
like  ^neas,  into  all  the  circumstances  of  his  journey,  and  the  perils 
that  beset  him.  Profound  would  be  his  set-out ;  full  of  tremor  his 
middle  course,  high  and  skilful  his  progress  ;  glorious,  though  with 
a  quickened  pulse,  his  triumphant  entry.  Delicate  had  been  his  sit- 
uation in  Ducking-pond  Row,  masterly  his  turn  at  Bell  Alley.  We 
saw  him  with  the  radiance  of  some  such  thought  on  his  countenance. 
He  was  just  entering  Long  Lane.  A  gravity  came  upon  him,  as  he 
steered  his  touchy  convoy  into  this  his  last  thoroughfare.  A  dog 
moved  him  into  a  httle  agitation,  danting  along ;  but  he  resumed  his 
course,  not  without  a  happy  trepidation,  hovering  as  he  was  on  the 
borders  of  triumph.  The  pig  still  required  care.  It  was  evidently 
a  pig  with  all  the  peculiar  turn  of  mind  of  his  species  —  a  fellow  that 
would  not  move  faster  than  he  could  help,  irritable,  retrospective, 
picking  objections,  and  prone  to  boggle  —  a  chap  with  a  tendency  to 
take  every  path  but  the  proper  one,  and  with  a  sidelong  tact  for  the 
alleys.     He  bolts ! 

He's  off"!     Evasit  !  Erupit ! 

"  O,"  exclaimed  the  man,  dashing  his  hand  against  his  head,  hft- 
ing  his  knee  in  agony,  and  screaming  with  all  the  weight  of  a  proph- 
ecy which  the  spectators  felt  to  be  too  true,  "  he'll  go  up  all  manner 
of  streets  ! " 

Poor  fellow  !  we  tliink  of  him  now,  sometimes,  driving  up  Duke 
Street,  and  not  to  be  comforted  in  Barbican. 


TO  THE  GRASSHOPPER  AND  THE  CRICKET. 

Green  little  vaulter  in  the  sunny  grass. 
Catching  your  heart  up  at  the  feel  of  June, 
Sole  voice  that's  heard  amidst  the  lazy  noon. 

When  even  the  bees  lag  at  the  summoning  brass  ; 

And  you,  warm  little  housekeeper,  who  class 


LEIGH    HUNT.         '  385 

With  those  who  think  the  candles  come  too  soon, 
Loving  the  fire,  and  with  your  tricksome  tune 
Nick  the  glad  silent  moments  as  they  pass  ; 
O,  sweet  and  tiny  cousins,  that  belong. 

One  to  the  fields,  the  other  to  the  hearth, 
Both  have  your  sunshine  ;  both,  though  small,  are  strong 

At  your  clear  hearts  ;  and  both  were  sent  on  earth 
To  sing  in  thoughtful  ears  this  natural  song. 

Indoors  and  out,  summer  and  winter,  —  mirth. 


ABOU   BEN   ADHEM   AND   THE   ANGEL. 

Abou  Ben  Adhem  —  may  his  tribe  increase  !  — 

Awoke  one  night  from  a  deep  dream  of  peace. 

And  saw,  within  the  moonlight  in  his  room, 

Making  it  rich  and  like  a  lily  in  bloom, 

An  angel  writing  in  a  book  of  gold. 

Exceeding  peace  had  made  Ben  Adhem  bold. 

And  to  the  presence  in  the  room  he  said, 

"  What  writest  thou  ?  "     The  vision  raised  its  head, 

And  with  a  look  made  of  all  sweet  accord. 

Answered,  "  The  names  of  those  who  love  the  Lord." 

"  And  is  mine  one  ?  "  said  Abou.     "  Nay,  not  so," 

Replied  the  angel.     Abou  spoke  more  low. 

But  cheerly  still,  and  said,  "  I  pray  thee,  then, 

Write  me  as  one  that  loves  his  fellow-men." 

The  angel  wrote,  and  vanished.     The  next  night 

It  came  again  with  a  great  wakening  light. 

And  showed  the  names  whom  love  of  God  had  blessed, 

And,  lo  !  Ben  Adhem's  name  led  all  the  rest. 


JOHN   WILSON. 

John  Wilson  was  bom  in  Paisley  in  1785,  and  was  educated  at  Glasgow  and  at  Oxford. 
He  lived  for  some  time  near  Lake  Windermere,  where  he  enjoyed  the  society  of  Words- 
worth. He  afterwards  removed  to  Edinburgh,  where  he  became  Professor  of  Moral  Philos- 
ophy and  editor  of  Blackwood's  Magazine.  His  contributions  to  Blackwood  were  univer- 
silly  read  and  admired,  since  they  were  written  in  a  style  of  freedom,  and  with  a  dash  of 
egotism  before  unknown  in  periodical  literature.  His  robust  nature  and  unfailing  spirits 
seem  to  inspire  every  sentence  ;  and,  whether  we  believe  in  his  political,  social,  or  artistic 
theories,  or  think  them  partial,  one-sided,  and  perverse,  we  read  his  lively  and  natural  talk 

2t; 


386  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

with  hearty  pleasure.  He  was  an  enthusiastic  sportsman,  and  his  best  things  are  the  de- 
scriptions of  his  favorite  pastimes.  His  principal  works  are  the  Recreations  of  Cliiistopher 
North,  Lights  and  Shadows  of  Scottish  Life,  a  series  of  tales,  mostly  tender  and  pathetic, 
and  the  Noctes  Ambrosianje.  In  the  last-named  work  the  animal  spirits  of  our  author  run 
riot ;  and  those  who  are  familiar  with  the  politics  and  the  literature  of  the  time  will  find 
(amongst  a  deal  of  trash)  many  apt  and  striking  observations,  and  some  scenes  brim  full  of 
fun.  He  wrote  also  two  poems  —  The  Isle  of  Palms  and  The  City  of  the  Plague;  both 
have  considerable  merit,  but  not  enough  to  sustain  the  great  reputation  which  the  poet  en- 
joyed among  his  contemporaries.  The  reader  who  follows  Wilson  through  a  volume  of 
prose  will  have  an  idea  of  his  versatile  power  which  no  single  citation  can  convey.  He  died 
in  1854. 

[From  Recreations  of  Christophsr  North.] 

Yet  there  seems  to  be  a  natural  course  or  progress  in  pastimes. 
We  do  not  now  speak  of  marbles,  or  knuckling  down  at  taw,  or 
trundling  a  hoop,  or  pall-lall,  or  pitch  and  toss,  or  any  other  of  the 
games  of  the  school  playground.  We  restrict  ourselves  to  what, 
somewhat  inaccurately  perhaps,  are  called  field-sports.  Thus  an- 
gling seems  the  earliest  of  them  all  in  the  order  of  nature.  There 
the  new-breeched  urchin  stands  on  the  low  bridge  of  the  little  bit 
burnie  !  and  with  crooked  pin,  baited  with  one  unwrithing  ring  of  a 
dead  worm,  and  attached  to  a  yarn-thread,  — for  he  has  not  yet  got 
into  hair,  and  is  years  off  gut,  — his  rod  of  the  mere  willow  or  hazel 
wand,  there  will  he  stand  during  all  his  play-hours,  as  forgetful  of 
his  Primer  as  if  the  weary  art  of  printing  had  never  been  invented, 
day  after  day,  week  after  week,  month  after  month,  in  mute,  deep, 
earnest,  passionate,  heart-mind-and-soul  engrossing  hope  of  some 
time  or  other  catching  a  minnow  or  a  beardie  !  A  tug  —  a  tug! 
With  face  ten  times  flushed  and  pale  by  turns  ere  you  could  count  ten, 
he  at  last  has  strength,  in  the  agitation  of  his  fear  and  joy,  to  pull 
away  at  the  monster  —  and  there  he  lies  in  his  beauty  among  the  gow- 
ans  and  the  greensward,  for  he  has  whapped  him  right  over  his  head 
and  far  away,  a  fish  a  quarter  of  an  ounce  in  weight,  and,  at  the  very 
least,  two  inches  long  !  Off  he  flies,  on  wings  of  wind,  to  his  father, 
mother,  and  sisters,  and  brothers,  and  cousins,  and  all  the  neighbor- 
hood, holding  the  fish  aloft  in  both  hands,  still  fearful  of  its  escape ; 
and,  like  a  genuine  child  of  corruption,  his  eyes  brighten  at  the  first 
blush  of  cold  blood  on  his  small  fumy  fingers.  He  carries  about 
with  him,  up  stairs  and  down  stairs,  his  prey  upon  a  plate  ;  he  will 
not  wash  his  hands  before  dinner,  for  he  exults  in  the  silver  scales 
adhering  to  the  thumb-nail  that  scooped  the  pin  out  of  the  baggy's 
maw ;  and  at  night,  "  cabined,  cribbed,  confined,"  he  is  overheard 
murmuring  in  his  sleep  —  a  thief,  a  robber,  and  a  murderer,  in  his 
yet  infant  dreams ! 


JOHN   WILSON.  387 

From  that  hour  angling  is  no  more  a  mere  delightful  day-dream, 
haunted  by  the  dim  hopes  of  imaginary  minnows,  but  a  reality  —  an 
art  —  a  science  —  of  which  the  flaxen-headed  school-boy  feels  him- 
self to  be  master  —  a  mystery  in  which  he  has  been  initiated  ;  and  off 
he  goes  now  all  alone,  in  the  power  of  successful  passion,  to  the  distant 
brook,  —  brook  a  mile  off,  —  with  fields,  and  hedges,  and  single  trees, 
and  little  groves,  and  a  huge  forest  of  six  acres,  between  it  and  the 
house  in  which  he  is  boarded  or  was  born  !  There  flows  on  the 
slender  music  of  the  shadowy  shallows  —  there  pours  the  deeper  din 
of  the  birch-treed  waterfall.  The  scared  water-pyet  flits  away  from 
stone  to  stone,  and,  dipping,  disappears  among  the  airy  bubbles,  to 
him  a  new  sight  of  joy  and  wonder.  And  O  !  how  sweet  the  scent 
of  the  broom  or  furze,  yellowing  along  the  braes,  where  leap  the 
lambs,  less  happy  than  he,  on  the  knolls  of  sunshine  !  His  grand- 
father has  given  him  a  half-crown  rod  in  two  pieces  —  yes,  his  line 
is  of  hair  twisted,  plaited  by  his  own  soon-instructed  little  fingers. 
By  Heavens,  he  is  fishing  with  the  fly !  And  the  Fates,  who,  grim 
and  grisly  as  they  are  painted  to  be  by  full-grown,  ungrateful,  lying 
poets,  smile  like  angels  upon  the  paidler'  in  the  brook,  winnowing 
the  air  with  their  wings  into  western  breezes,  while  at  the  very  first 
throw  the  yellow  trout  forsakes  his  fastness  beneath  the  bog-wood, 
and  with  a  lazy  wallop,  and  then  a  sudden  plunge,  and  then  a  race 
like  hghtning,  changes  at  once  the  child  into  the  boy,  and  shoots 
through  his  thrilling  and  aching  heart  the  ecstasy  of  a  new  life  ex- 
panding in  that  glorious  pastime,  even  as  a  rainbow  on  a  sudden 
brightens  up  the  sky.  Fortuna  favet  fortibus  —  and  with  one  long 
pull,  and  strong  pull,  and  pull  all  together,  Johnny  lands  a  twelve- 
incher  on  the  soft,  smooth,  silvery  sand  of  the  only  bay  in  all  the  burn 
where  such  an  exploit  was  possible,  and,  dashing  upon  him  like  an 
osprey,  soars  up  with  him  in  his  talons  to  the  bank,  breaking  his 
line  as  he  hurries  off  to  a  spot  of  safety  twenty  yards  from  the  pool, 
and  then,  flinging  him  down  on  a  heath-surrounded  plat  of  sheep- 
nibbled  verdure,  lets  him  bounce  about  till  he  is  tired,  and  lies  gasp- 
ing with  unfrequent  and  feeble  motions,  bright,  and  beautiful,  and 
glorious  with  all  his  yellow  light  and  crimson  lustre,  spotted,  spec- 
kled, and  starred  in  his  scaly  splendor,  beneath  a  sun  that  never 
shone  before  so  dazzlingly  ;  but  now  the  radiance  of  the  captive  crea- 
ture is  dimmer  and  obscured,  for  the  eye  of  day  winks  and  seems 
almost  shut  behind  that  slow- sailing  mass  of  clouds,  composed  in 
equal  parts  of  air,  rain,  and  sunshine. 


388  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 


THOMAS   DE   QUINCEY. 

Thomas  de  Quincey  was  bom  in  Manchester  in  1786.  He  received  his  education  at  Eton, 
and  remained  for  a  time  at  Oxford,  but  ran  away  while  only  sixteen  years  old,  and  lived  a 
vagabond  life  in  London.  The  story  of  his  adventures  and  sufferings  forms  one  of  the  most 
interesting  chapters  in  liis  works.  Like  Coleridge  he  was  a  slave  to  opium,  and  consumed 
prodigious  quantities.  In  his  Confessions  of  an  Opium-Eater,  he  has  described  with  hor- 
rible vividness  the  dreams  and  the  mental  condition  induced  by  the  drug.  He  succeeded, 
however,  in  freeing  himself  from  the  fatal  appetite,  partly,  if  not  altogether,  and  continued 
for  many  years  a  brilliant  and  industrious  writer  for  the  press. 

De  Quincey  has  left  no  works  that  show  the  creative  faculty ;  but  his  critical  acuteness  is 
marvellous,  and  his  descriptive  powers  are  of  the  highest  order.  His  complete  works  have 
been  published  in  this  country  in  fifteen  volumes.     He  died  at  Edinburgh  in  1859. 

CHILDHOOD. 

On  the  day  after  my  sister's  death,  whilst  the  sweet  temple  of  her 
brain  was  yet  unviolated  by  human  scrutiny,  I  formed  my  own  scheme 
for  seeing  her  once  more.  Not  for  the  world  would  I  have  made 
this  known,  nor  have  suffered  a  witness  to  accompany  me.  I  had 
never  heard  of  feelings  that  take  the  name  of  "sentimental,"  nor 
dreamed  of  such  a  possibility.  But  grief,  even  in  a  child,  hates  the 
light,  and  shrinks  from  human  eyes.  The  house  was  large  enough 
to  have  two  staircases  ;  and  by  one  of  these  I  knew  that  about  mid- 
day, when  all  would  be  quiet  (for  the  servants  dined  at  one  o'clock), 
I  could  steal  up  into  her  chamber.  I  imagine  that  it  was  about  an 
hour  after  high  noon  when  I  reached  the  chamber  door;  it  was 
locked,  but  the  key  was  not  taken  away.  Entering,  I  closed  the 
door  so  softly,  that,  although  it  opened  upon  a  hall  which  ascended 
through  all  the  stories,  no  echo  ran  along  the  silent  walls.  Then, 
turning  round,  I  sought  my  sister's  face.  But  the  bed  had  been 
moved,  and  the  back  was  now  turned  towards  myself.  Nothing  met 
my  eyes  but  one  large  window,  wide  open,  through  which  the  sun 
of  midsummer,  at  midday,  was  showering  down  torrents  of  splendor. 
The  weather  was  dry,  the  sky  was  cloudless,  the  blue  depths  seemed 
the  express  types  of  infinity,  and  it  was  not  possible  for  eye  to  be- 
hold, or  for  heart  to  conceive,  any  symbols  more  pathetic  of  life  and 
the  glory  of  life. 

From  the  gorgeous  sunlight  I  turned  around  to  the  corpse.  There 
lay  the  sweet  childish  figure  ;  there  the  angel  face  ;  and,  as  people 
usually  fancy,  it  was  said  in  the  house  that  no  features  had  suffered 
any  change.  Had  they  not?  The  forehead,  indeed  —  the  serene 
and  noble  forehead  —  that  might  be  the  same  ;  but  the  frozen  eye- 


THOMAS    UE   QUINCEY.  389 

lids,  the  darkness  that  seemed  to  steal  from  beneath  them,  the  marble 
lips,  the  stiffening  hands,  laid  palm  to  palm,  as  if  repeating  the  sup- 
plications of  closing  anguish  —  could  these  be  mistaken  for  life  ? 
Had  it  been  so,  wherefore  did  I  not  spring  to  those  heavenly  lips 
with  tears  and  never-ending  kisses  ?  But  so  it  was  not.  I  stood 
checked  for  a  moment ;  awe,  not  fear,  fell  upon  me  ;  and,  whilst  I 
stood,  a  solemn  wind  began  to  blow  —  the  saddest  that  ear  ever 
heard.  It  was  a  wind  that  might  have  swept  the  fields  of  mortality 
for  a  thousand  centuries.  Many  times  since,  upon  summer  days, 
when  the  sun  is  about  the  hottest,  I  have  remarked  the  same  wind 
arising  and  uttering  the  same  hollow,  solemn,  Memnonian,  but 
saintly  swell :  it  is  in  this  world  the  one  great  audible  symbol  of 
eternity.  And  three  times  in  my  life  have  I  happened  to  hear  the 
same  sound  in  the  same  circumstances  —  namely,  when  standing 
between  an  open  window  and  a  dead  body  on  a  summer  day. 

Instantly,  when  my  ear  caught  this  vast  ^olian  intonation,  when 
my  eye  filled  with  the  golden  fullness  of  life,  the  pomps  of  the  heav- 
ens above,  or  the  glory  of  the  flowers  below,  and  turning  when  it 
settled  upon  the  frost  which  overspread  my  sister's  face,  instantly  a 
trance  fell  upon  me.  A  vault  seemed  to  open  in  the  zenith  of  the 
far  blue  sky,  a  shaft  which  ran  up  forever.  I,  in  spirit,  rose  as  if 
on  billows  that  also  ran  up  the  shaft  forever  ;  and  the  billows  seemed 
to  pursue  the  throne  of  God ;  but  that  also  ran  before  us,  and  fled 
away  continually.  The  flight  and  the  pursuit  seemed  to  go  on  for- 
ever and  ever.  Frost  gathering  frost,  some  Sarsar  wind  of  death, 
seemed  to  repel  me  ;  some  mighty  relation  between  God  and  death 
dimly  struggled  to  evolve  itself  from  the  dreadful  antagonism  be- 
tween them  ;  shadowy  meanings  even  yet  continued  to  exercise  and 
torment,  in  dreams,  the  deciphering  oracle  within  me.  I  slept  —  for 
how  long  I  cannot  say  ;  slowly  I  recovered  my  self-possession,  and 
when  I  woke,  found  myself  standing,  as  before,  close  to  my  sister's  bed. 

On  Sunday  mornings  I  went  with  the  rest  of  my  family  to  church  ; 
it  was  a  church  on  the  ancient  model  of  England,  having  aisles,  gal- 
leries, organ,  all  things  ancient  and  venerable,  and  the  proportions 
majestic.  Here,  whilst  the  congregation  knelt  through  the  long  lit- 
any, as  often  as  we  came  to  that  passage,  so  beautiful  amongst  many 
that  are  so,  where  God  is  supplicated  on  behalf  of  "  all  sick  persons 
and  young  children,"  and  that  he  would  "  show  his  pity  upon  all 
prisoners  and  captives,"  I  wept  in  secret,  and  raising  my  streaming 
eyes  to  the  upper  windows  of  the  galleries,  saw,  on  days  when  the 


39C  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

sun  was  shining,  a  spectacle  as  affecting  as  ever  prophet  c:in  have 
beheld.  The  sides  of  the  windows  were  rich  with  storied  glass  ; 
through  the  deep  purples  and  crimsons  streamed  the  golden  light ; 
emblazonries  of  heavenly  illumination  (from  the  sun)  mingling  with 
the  earthly  emblazonries  (from  art  and  its  gorgeous  coloring)  of  what 
is  grandest  in  man.  There  were  the  apostles  that  had  trampled  upon 
earth,  and  the  glories  of  earth,  out  of  celestial  love  to  man.  There 
were  the  martyrs  that  had  borne  witness  to  the  truth  through  flames, 
through  torments,  and  through  armies  of  fierce,  insulting  faces. 
There  were  the  saints  who,  under  intolerable  pangs,  had  glorified 
God  by  meek  submission  to  his  will.  And  all  the  time,  whilst  this 
tumult  of  sublime  memorials  held  on  as  the  deep  chords  from  some 
accompaniment  in  the  bass,  I  saw  through  the  wide  central  field  of 
the  window,  where  the  glass  was  //^colored,  white,  fleecy  clouds 
sailing  over  the  azure  depths  of  the  sky :  were  it  but  a  fragment  or 
a  hint  of  such  a  cloud,  immediately  under  the  flash  of  my  sorrow- 
haunted  eye,  it  grew  and  shaped  itself  into  visions  of  beds  with  white 
lawny  curtains  ;  and  in  the  beds  lay  sick  children,  dying  children, 
that  were  tossing  in  anguish,  and  weeping  clamorously  for  death. 
God,  for  some  mysterious  reason,  could  not  suddenly  release  them 
from  their  pain  ;  but  he  suifered  the  beds,  as  it  seemed,  to  rise  slowly 
through  the  clouds  ;  slowly  the  beds  ascended  into  the  chambers  of 
the  air ;  slowly,  also,  his  arms  descended  from  the  heavens,  that  he 
and  his  young  children,  whom  in  Palestine,  once  and  forever,  he  had 
blessed,  though  they  must  pass  slowly  through  the  dreadful  chasm 
of  separation,  might  yet  meet  the  sooner. 

These  visions  were  self-sustained.  These  visions  needed  not  that 
any  sound  should  speak  to  me,  or  music  mould  my  feelings.  The 
hint  from  the  litany,  the  fragment  from  the  clouds  —  those  and  the 
storied  windows  were  sufficient.  But  not  the  less  the  blare  of  the 
tumultuous  organ  wrought  its  own  separate  creations.  And  often- 
times in  anthems,  when  the  mighty  instrument  threw  its  vast  columns 
of  sound,  fierce  yet  melodious,  over  the  voices  of  the  choir,  —  high  in 
arches,  when  it  seemed  to  rise,  surmounting  and  overriding  the  strife 
of  the  vocal  parts,  and  gathering  by  strong  coercion  the  total  storm  into 
unity,  —  sometimes  I  seemed  to  rise  and  walk  triumphantly  upon  those 
clouds  which,  but  a  moment  before,  I  had  looked  up  to  as  mementos  of 
prostrate  sorrow ;  yes,  sometimes  under  the  transfigurations  of  mu- 
sic, felt  of  grief  itself  as  of  a  fiery  chariot  for  mounting  victoriously 
above  the  causes  of  grief 

God  speaks  to  children,  also,  in  dreams,  and  by  the  oracles  that 


THOMAS    DE   QUINCEY.  39I 

lurk  in  darkness.  But  in  solitude,  above  all  things,  when  made  vocal 
to  the  meditative  heart  by  the  truths  and  services  of  a  national 
church,  God  holds  with  children  "  communion  undisturbed."  Soli- 
tude, though  it  may  be  silent  as  light,  is,  like  light,  the  mightiest  of 
agencies  ;  for  solitude  is  essential  to  man.  All  men  come  into  this 
world  alone;  all  leave  it  alone.  Even  a  little  child  has  a  dread, 
whispering  consciousness  that,  if  he  should  be  summoned  to  travel 
into  God's  presence,  no  gentle  nurse  will  be  allowed  to  lead  him  by 
the  hand,  nor  mother  to  carry  him  in  her  arms,  nor  little  sister  to 
share  his  trepidations.  King  and  priest,  warrior  and  maiden,  philos- 
opher and  child,  all  must  walk  those  mighty  galleries  alone.  The 
solitude,  therefore,  which  in  this  world  appalls  or  fascinates  a  child's 
heart,  is  but  the  echo  of  a  far  deeper  solitude,  through  which  already 
he  has  passed,  and  of  another  solitude  deeper  still,  through  which 
he  has  to  pass  —  reflex  of  one  solitude,  prefiguration  of  another. 

O  burden  of  solitude,  that  cleavest  to  man  through  every  stage  of 
his  being!  in  his  birth,  which  has  been  —  in  his  life,  which  is  —  in 
his  death,  which  shall  be  —  mighty  and  essential  solitude  !  that 
wast,  and  art,  and  art  to  be  ;  thou  broodest,  like  the  Spirit  of  God 
moving  upon  the  surface  of  the  deeps,  over  every  heart  that  sleeps 
in  the  nurseries  of  Christendom.  Like  the  vast  laboratory  of  the 
air,  which,  seeming  to  be  nothing,  or  less  than  the  shadow  of  a  shade, 
hides  within  itself  the  principles  of  all  things,  solitude  for  the  medi- 
tating child  is  the  Agrippa's  mirror  of  the  unseen  universe.  Deep 
is  the  solitude  of  millions  who,  with  hearts  welling  forth  love,  have 
none  to  love  them.  Deep  is  the  solitude  of  those  who,  under  secret 
griefs,  have  none  to  pity  them.  Deep  is  the  solitude  of  those  who, 
fighting  with  doubts  or  darkness,  have  none  to  counsel  them.  But 
deeper  than  the  deepest  of  these  solitudes  is  that  which  broods  over 
childhood  under  the  passion  of  sorrow,  bringing  before  it,  at  intervals, 
the  final  solitude  which  watches  for  it,  and  is  waiting  for  it  within 
the  gates  of  death.  O  mighty  and  essential  solitude,  that  wast,  and 
art,  and  art  to  be,  thy  kingdom  is  made  perfect  m  the  grave  ;  but  even 
over  those  that  keep  watch  outside  the  grave,  like  myself,  an  infant 
of  six  years  old,  thou  stretchest  out  a  sceptre  of  fascination. 


THE   PALIMPSEST. 

A  PALIMPSEST  is  a  membrane  or  roll  cleansed  of  its  manuscript 
by  reiterated  successions. 

What  was  the  reason  that  the  Greeks  and  the  Romans  had  not  the 


392  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

advantage  of  printed  books  ?  The  answer  will  be,  from  ninety-nine 
persons  in  a  hundred,  Because  the  mystery  of  printing  was  not  then 
discovered.  But  this  is  altogether  a  mistake.  The  secret  of  print- 
ing must  have  been  discovered  many  thousands  of  times  before  it 
was  used,  or  could  h^  used.  ...  It  did  not  require  an  Athenian 
intellect  to  read  the  main  secret  of  printing  in  many  scores  of  pro- 
cesses which  the  ordinary  uses  of  life  were  daily  repeating.  To  say 
nothing  of  analogous  artifices  amongst  various  mechanic  artisans,  all 
that  is  essential  in  printing  must  have  been  known  to  every  nation 
that  struck  coins  and  medals.  Not,  therefore,  any  want  of  a  printing 
art,  —  that  is,  of  an  art  for  multiplying  impressions, — but  the  want 
of  a  cheap  material  for  receiving  such  impressions,  was  the  obstacle 
to  an  introduction  of  printed  books,  even  as  early  as  Pisistratus. 
The  ancients  did  apply  printing  to  records  of  silver  and  gold  ;  to 
marble,  and  many  other  substances  cheaper  than  gold  and  silver, 
they  did  not,  since  each  monument  required  a  separate  effort  of  in- 
scription. Simply  this  defect  it  was  of  a  cheap  material  for  receiv- 
ing impresses,  which  froze  in  its  very  fountains  the  early  resources 
of  printing. 

Now,  out  of  that  original  scarcity  affecting  all  materials  proper  for 
durable  books,  which  continued  up  to  times  comparatively  modern, 
grew  the  opening  for  palimpsests.  Naturally,  when  once  a  roll  of 
parchment  or  of  vellum  had  done  its  office,  by  propagating'  through 
a  series  of  generations  what  once  had  possessed  an  interest  for  the7n, 
but  which,  under  changes  of  opinion  or  of  taste,  had  faded  to  their  feel- 
ings or  had  become  obsolete  for  their  undertakings,  the  whole  fnem- 
brana,  or  vellum  skin,  the  twofold  product  of  human  skill,  costly 
material,  and  costly  freight  of  thought,  which  it  carried,  drooped  in 
value  concurrently  —  supposing  that  each  were  inahenably  associated 
to  the  other.  Once  it  had  been  the  impress  of  a  human  mind  which 
stamped  its  value  upon  the  vellum  ;  the  vellum,  though  costly,  had 
contributed  but  a  secondary  element  of  value  to  the  total  result. 
At  length,  however,  this  relation  between  the  vehicle  and  its  freight 
has  gradually  been  undermined.  The  vellum,  from  having  been  the 
setting  of  the  jewel,  has  risen  at  length  to  be  the  jewel  itself;  and 
the  burden  of  thought,  from  having  given  the  chief  value  to  the  vel- 
lum, has  now  become  the  chief  obstacle  to  its  value  —  nay,  has  totally 
extinguished  its  value,  unless  it  can  be  dissociated  from  the  connec- 
tion. Yet,  if  this  unlinking  can  be  effected,  then,  fast  as  the  inscrip- 
tion upon  the  membrane  is  sinking  into  rubbish,  the  membrane  itself 


.     THOMAS   DE   QUINCE Y.  393 

is  reviving  in  its  separate  importance  ;  and  from  bearing  a  ministerial 
value,  the  vellum  has  come  at  last  to  absorb  the  whole  value 

Hence  the  importance  for  our  ancestors  that  the  separation  should 
be  effected.  Hence  it  arose  in  the  middle  ages,  as  a  considerable 
object  for  chemistry,  to  discharge  the  writing  from  the  roll,  and  thus 
to  make  it  available  for  a  new  succession  of  thoughts.  The  soil,  if 
cleansed  from  what  once  had  been  hot-house  plants,  but  now  were 
held  to  be  weeds,  would  be  ready  to  receive  a  fresh  and  more  appro- 
priate crop.  In  that  object  the  monkish  chemist  succeeded  ;  but 
after  a  fashion  which  seems  almost  incredible,  —  incredible  not  as 
regards  the  extent  of  their  success,  but  as  regards  the  delicacy  of 
restraints  under  which  it  moved,  —  so  equally  adjusted  was  their 
success  to  the  immediate  interests  of  that  period,  and  to  the  re- 
versionary objects  of  our  own.  They  did  the  thing ;  but  not  so 
radically  as  to  prevent  us,  their  posterity,  from  //;/doing  it.  They 
expelled  the  writing  sufficiently  to  leave  a  field  for  the  new  manu- 
script, and  yet  not  sufficiently  to  make  the  traces  of  the  elder  manu- 
script irrecoverable  for  us.     .     .     . 

Here,  for  instance,  is  a  parchment  which  contained  some  Grecian 
tragedy,  the  Agamemnon  of  ^schylus,  or  the  Phoenissas  of  Euripi- 
des. This  had  possessed  a  value  almost  inappreciable  in  the  eyes 
of  accomplished  scholars,  continually  growing  rarer  through  genera- 
tions. But  four  centuries  are  gone  by  since  the  destruction  of  the 
Western  Empire.  Christianity,  with  towering  grandeurs  of  another 
class,  has  founded  a  different  empire  ;  and  some  bigoted,  yet  perhaps 
holy  monk  has  washed  away  (as  he  persuades  himself)  the  heathen's 
tragedy,  replacing  it  with  a  monastic  legend  ;  which  legend  is  disfig- 
ured with  fables  in  its  incidents,  and  yet  in  a  higher  sense  is  true, 
because  interwoven  with  Christian  morals,  and  with  the  subhmest 
of  Christian  revelations.  Three,  four,  five  centuries  more,  find  man 
still  devout  as  ever  ;  but  the  language  has  become  obsolete,  and  even 
for  Christian  devotion  a  new  era  has  arisen,  throwing  it  into  the 
channel  of  crusading  zeal  or  of  chivalrous  enthusiasm.  The  mem- 
brana  is  wanted  now  for  a  knightly  romance  —  for  "my  Cid,"  or 
Cceur  de  Lion  ;  for  Sir  Tristrem,  or  Lyb^us  Disconus.  In  this 
way,  by  means  of  the  imperfect  chemistry  known  to  the  mediaeval 
period,  the  same  roll  has  served  as  a  conservatory  for  three  separate 
generations  of  flowers  and  fruits,  all  perfectly  different,  and  yet  all 
specially  adapted  to  the  wants  of  the  successive  possessors.  The 
Greek  tragedy,  the  monkish  legend,  the  knightly  romance,  each  has 
ruled  its  own  period.  One  harvest  after  another  has  been  gathered 
into  the  garners  of  man  through  ages  far  apart.     .     .     . 


394  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

Such  were  the  achievements  of  rude  monastic  chemistry.  But  the 
more  elaborate  chemistry  of  our  own  days  has  reversed  all  these 
motions  of  our  simple  ancestors,  with  results  in  every  stage  that  to 
them  would  have  realized  the  most  fantastic  amongst  the  promises 
of  thaumaturgy.  Insolent  vaunt  of  Paracelsus,  that  he  would  restore 
the  original  rose  or  violet  out  of  the  ashes  settling  from  its  combus- 
tion—  that  is  now  rivalled  in  this  modern  achievement.  The  traces 
of  each  successive  handwriting,  regularly  effaced,  as  had  been  ima- 
gined, have,  in  the  inverse  order,  been  regularly  called  back. 


What  else  than  a  natural  and  mighty  palimpsest  is  the  human  brain  ? 
Such  a  pahmpsest  is  my  brain  ;  such  a  palimpsest,  O  reader,  is  yours  ! 
Everlasting  layers  of  ideas,  images,  feelings,  have  fallen  upon  yout 
brain  softly  as  light.  Each  succession  has  seemed  to  bury  all  that 
went  before.  And  yet,  in  reality,  not  one  has  been  extinguished. 
And  if,  in  the  vellum  palimpsest,  lying  amongst  the  other  dipiomata 
of  human  archives  or  libraries,  there  is  anything  fantastic,  or  which 
moves  to  laughter,  as  oftentimes  there  is  in  the  grotesque  collisions  of 
those  successive  themes,  having  no  natural  connection,  which  by  pure 
accident  have  consecutively  occupied  the  roll,  yet,  in  our  own  heaven- 
created  palimpsest,  the  deep  memorial  palimpsest  of  the  brain,  there 
are  not,  and  cannot  be,  such  incoherencies. 

Yes,  reader,  countless  are  the  mysterious  handwritings  of  grief 
or  joy  which  have  inscribed  themselves  successively  upon  the  palimp- 
sest of  your  brain  ;  and  like  the  annual  leaves  of  aboriginal  forests, 
or  the  undissolving  snows  on  the  Himalaya,  or  light  falling  upon  light, 
the  endless  strata  have  covered  up  each  other  in  forgetfulness.  But 
by  the  hour  of  death,  but  by  fever,  hut  by  the  searchings  of  opium, 
all  these  can  revive  in  strength.  They  are  not  dead,  but  sleeping. 
In  the  illustration  imagined  by  myself,  from  the  case  of  some  indi- 
vidual palimpsest,  the  Grecian  tragedy  had  seemed  to  be  displaced, 
but  was  not  displaced,  by  the  monkish  legend ;  and  the  monkish 
legend  had  seemed  to  be  displaced,  but  was  not  displaced,  by  the 
knightly  romance.  In  some  potent  convulsion  of  the  system,  all 
wheels  back  into  its  earliest  elementary  stage.  The  bewildering 
romance,  light  tarnished  with  darkness,  the  semi-fabulous  legend, 
truth  celestial  mixed  with  human  falsehoods,  —  these  fade,  even  of 
themselves,  as  life  advances-     The  romance  has  perished  that  the 


LORD   BYRON.  395 

young  man  adored  ;  the  legend  has  gone  that  deluded  the  boy  ;  but 
the  deep,  deep  tragedies  of  infancy,  as  when  the  child's  hands  were 
unlinked  forever  from  his  mother's  neck,  or  his  lips  forever  from  his 
sister's  kisses,  —  these  remain  lurking  below  all,  and  these  lurk  to 
the  last. 


LORD   BYRON. 

George  Gordoa,  Lord  Byron,  was  bom  in  Lont^on  in  1788,  and  received  his  education  at 
Harrow,  and  afterwards  at  Cambridge.  His  first  poems  appeared  in  1807,  under  the  title 
of  Hours  of  Idleness.  The  volume  was  severely  "cut  up  "  in  the  Edinburgh  Review,  and 
the  poet  in  reply  published  a  vigorous  satire,  called  Erglish  Bards  and  Scotch  Reviewers. 
The  answer  was  a  more  effective  shot  than  the  attack,  and  Byron  had  the-  sympathy  of  the 
reading  public.  After  two  years  of  travel  in  the  south  of  Europe  he  published  the  first  two 
cantos  of  Childe  Harold,  and  was  at  once  acknowledged  to  be  one  of  the  first,  if  not  the  first, 
of  British  poets.  Soon  after  appeared  The  Giaour,  The  Bride  of  Abydos,  The  Corsair,  and 
Lara.  At  the  height  of  his  reputation  he  married  the  daughter  of  Sir  Ralph  Milbanke,  with 
whom  he  lived  but  a  year.  Extravagance,  debt,  dissipation,  and  an  hereditary  ill  temper 
were  too  much  to  be  borne,  and  the  unhappy  lady  left  him  and  returned  to  her  father's 
country  seat. 

The  effects  of  this  quarrel  are  visib'e  in  all  the  subsequent  works  of  the  poet.  If  he  was 
proud,  gloomy,  and  bitter  before,  he  became  little  less  than  satanic  afterwards.  He  left 
England  never  to  return,  and  visited  the  picturesque  scenes  and  historic  cities  of  the 
Continent.  Childe  Harold  was  finished  ;  then  came  Manfred,  Beppo,  Mazej  pa,  Cain, 
Marino  Faliero,  and  his  other  numerous  dramas,  and  all  that  was  written  of  Don  Juan.  He 
lived  for  a  long  time  in  Venice,  steeped  in  debauchery,  and  defiant  of  a  decent  iniblic  opinion. 
In  1823  he  went  to  aid  the  Greeks  in  their  war  for  independence,  and  died  at  Missolonghi, 
April  19,  1824.  His  remains  were  brought  to  England  and  buried  in  the  parish  church  of 
Hucknall,  near  Newstead  Abbey  ;  the  Dean  and  Chapter  of  Westminster  having  intimated 
that  they  should  refuse  permission  to  lay  him  among  the  illustrious  dead  in  the  Abbey. 

His  Poems,  Life,  and  Letters  have  been  published  in  sixteen  volumes,  by  Murray,  Lon- 
don, —  the  life  written  by  Thomas  Moore.  A  very  striking,  but  rather  disagreeable  picture 
of  Byron  may  be  found  in  Trelawney's  Recollections.  The  reader  who  desires  to  s:!e 
the  prominent  incidents  in  his  life,  and  a  poweriul  summary  of  his  works,  can  consult  the 
review  in  Macaulay's  Essays. 

The  moody,  restless  spirit  of  the  man  gave  a  tinge  to  all  his  works  ;  for  his  works  were 
always  personal ;  his  characters  were  but  embodiments  of  his  own  feelings.  And,  truly,  the 
spectacle  of  a  grand  creative  genius,  linked  with  the  sullen  hate  of  a  fallen  angel  and  the 
lawless  passions  of  a  sensualist,  must  give  an  instant,  dazzling  warning  to  the  youth  who 
supposes  that  mere  intellectual  greatness,  uncontrolled  by  moral  qualities,  is  to  be  desired 
or  worshipped. 

Childe  Harold  is  comparatively  free  from  the  grave  faults  that  belong  to  B3n^n's  poems 
in  general  ;  and  in  many  respects  it  must  be  regarded  as  equal  to  the  best  efforts  of  English 
genius.  Detached  passages  of  great  beauty  could  be  selected  from  many  of  the  other  poems  ; 
but  the  interest  in  them  is  more  dependent  upon  the  story,  and  accordingly  they  are  left  for 
a  s^eparate  reading. 


39^  JIAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

GREECE. 

[From  Childe  Harold] 

CANTO   II. 

LXXXV. 

And  yet  how  lovely  in  thine  age  of  woe, 
Land  of  lost  gods  and  godlike  men,  art  thou ! 
Thy  vales  of  evergreen,  thy  hills  of  snow. 
Proclaim  thee  Nature's  varied  favorite  now  ; 
Thy  fanes,  thy  temples  to  the  surface  bow. 
Commingling  slowly  with  heroic  earth. 
Broke  by  the  share  of  every  rustic  plough  : 
So  perish  monuments  of  mortal  birth, 
So  perish  all  in  turn,  save  well-recorded  Worth  *, 

LXXXVL 

Save  where  some  solitary  column  mourns 
Above  its  prostrate  brethren  of  the  cave ; 
Save  where  Tritonia's  airy  shrine  adorns 
Colonna's  cliff,  and  gleams  along  the  wave  ; 
Save  o'er  some  warrior's  half-forgotten  grave, 
Where  the  gray  stones  and  unmolested  grass 
Ages,  but  not  oblivion,  feebly  brave, 
While  strangers  only  not  regardless  pass. 
Lingering  hke  me,  perchance,  to  gaze,  and  sigh,  "  Alai 

LXXXVII. 

Yet  are  thy  skies  as  blue,  thy  crags  as  wild, 
Sweet  are  thy  groves,  and  verdant  are  thy  fields, 
Thine  olive  ripe  as  when  Minerva  smiled  ; 
And  still  his  honeyed  wealth  Hymettus  yields  : 
There  the  blithe  bee  his  fragrant  fortress  builds, 
The  freeborn  wanderer  of  thy  mountain  air  ; 
Apollo  still  thy  long,  long  summer  gilds. 
Still  in  his  beam  Mendeli's  marbles  glare  : 
Art,  Glory,  Freedom  fail,  but  Nature  still  is  fair. 

LXXXVIII. 

Where'er  w^e  tread,  'tis  haunted,  holy  ground ; 
No  earth  of  thine  is  lost  in  vulgar  mould, 
But  one  vast  realm  of  wonder  spreads  around, 
And  all  the  Muse's  tales  seem  truly  told, 


LORD   BYRON,  397 

Till  the  sense  aches  with  gazing  to  behold 
The  scenes  our  earliest  dreams  have  dwelt  upon  : 
Each  hill  and  dale,  each  deepening  glen  and  wold, 
Defies  the  power  which  crushed  thy  temples  gone  : 
Age  shakes  Athena's  tower,  but  spares  gray  Marathon. 

XCI. 

Yet  to  the  remnants  of  thy  splendor  past 
Shall  pilgrims,  pensive,  but  unwearied,  throng  ; 
Long  shall  the  voyager,  with  the  Ionian  blast, 
Hail  the  bright  clime  of  battle  and  of  song ; 
Long  shall  thine  annals  and  immortal  tongue 
Fill  with  thy  fame  the  youth  of  many  a  shore  : 
Boast  of  the  aged  !  lesson  of  the  young  ! 
Which  sages  venerate  and  bards  adore. 
As  Pallas  and  the  Muse  unveil  their  awful  lore. 


THE   NIGHT   BEFORE   WATERLOO. 

CANTO  in. 
XXL 

There  was  a  sound  of  revelry  by  night, 
And  Belgium's  capital  had  gathered  then 
Her  beauty  and  her  chivalry,  and  bright 
The  lamps  shone  o'er  fair  women  and  brave  men  ; 
A  thousand  hearts  beat  happily  ;  and  when 
Music  arose  with  its  voluptuous  swell. 
Soft  eyes  looked  love  to  eyes  which  spake  again. 
And  all  went  merry  as  a  marriage  bell ; 
But  hush  !  hark  !  a  deep  sound  strikes  like  a  rising  knell. 

XXII. 

Did  ye  not  hear  it  ?     No  ;  'twas  but  the  wind. 
Or  the  car  rattling  o'er  the  stony  street ; 
On  with  the  dance  ;  let  joy  be  unconfined  ; 
No  sleep  till  morn,  when  Youth  and  Pleasure  meet 
To  chase  the  glowing  Hours  with  flying  feet. 
But  hark  !  that  heavy  sound  breaks  in  once  more, 
As  if  the  clouds  its  echo  would  repeat ; 
And  nearer,  clearer,  deadlier  than  before  ! 
Arm,  arm  !  it  is  —  it  is  —  the  cannon's  opening  roar  ! 


J98  HAND-BOOK   OF  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

XXIV. 

Ah,  then  and  there  was  hurrying  to  and  fro, 
And  gathering  tears,  and  tremblings  of  distress, 
And  cheeks  all  pale,  which  but  g,n  hour  ago 
Blushed  at  the  praise  of  their  own  loveliness  ; 
And  there  were  sudden  partings,  such  as  press 
The  life  from  out  young  hearts,  and  choking  sighs 
Which  ne'er  might  be  repeated  :  who  would  guess 
If  ever  more  should  meet  those  mutual  eyes. 
Since  upon  night  so  sweet  such  awful  morn  could  rise  I 

XXV. 

And  there  was  mounting  in  hot  haste  :  the  steed, 
The  mustering  squadron,  and  the  clattering  car, 
Went  pouring  forward  with  impetuous  speed, 
And  swiftly  forming  in  the  ranks  of  war ; 
And  the  deep  thunder  peal  on  peal  afar ; 
And  near,  the  beat  of  the  alarming  drum, 
Roused  up  the  soldier  ere  the  morning  star ; 
While  thronged  the  citizens  with  terror  dumb, 
Or  whispering,  with  white  lips,  "  The  foe  !  They  come,  they  come  !  " 

XXVII. 

And  Ardennes  waves  above  them  her  green  leaves, 
Dewy  with  Nature's  tear-drops,  as  they  pass, 
Grieving,  if  aught  inanimate  e'er  grieves, 
Over  the  unreturning  brave,  —  alas  ! 
Ere  evening  to  be  trodden  like  the  grass 
Which  now  beneath  them,  but  above  shall  grow 
In  its  next  verdure,  when  this  fiery  mass 
Of  living  valor,  rolling  on  the  foe. 
And  burning  with  high  hope,  shall  moulder  cold  and  low.  ^ 

XXVIII. 

Last  noon  beheld  them  full  of  lusty  life. 

Last  eve  in  Beauty's  circle  proudly  gay. 

The  midnight  brought  the  signal-sound  of  strife, 

The  morn  the  marshalling  in  arms, — the  day 

Battle's  magnificently  stern  array  ! 

The  thunder-clouds  close  o'er  it,  which  when  rent 


LORD   BYRON.  399 

The  earth  is  covered  thick  with  other  clay, 
Which  her  own  clay  shall  cover,  heaped  and  pent, 
Rider  and  horse,  —  friend,  foe,  —  in  one  red  burial  blent. 

-  GREAT  SOULS  LONELY. 

CANTO  III. 
XLV. 

He  who  ascends  to  mountain-tops  shall  find 
The  loftiest  peaks  most  wrapt  in  clouds  and  snow ; 
He  who  surpasses  or  subdues  mankind 
Must  look  down  on  the  hate  of  those  below. 
Though  high  above  the  sun  of  glory  glow, 
And  far  beneath  the  earth  and  ocean  spread, 
Round  him  are  icy  rocks,  and  loudly  blow 
Contending  tempests  on  his  naked  head, 
And  thus  reward  the  toils  which  to  those  summits  led. 


A   STORM   IN   THE  ALPS. 
XCII. 

The  sky  is  changed  !  and  such  a  change  !  O  night, 
And  storm,  and  darkness,  ye  are  wondrous  strong. 
Yet  lovely  in  your  strength,  as  is  the  light 
Of  a  dark  eye  in  woman  !     Far  along. 
From  peak  to  peak,  the  rattling  crags  among 
Leaps  the  live  thunder !     Not  from  one  lone  cloud. 
But  every  mountain  now  hath  found  a  tongue  ; 
And  Jura  answers,  through  her  misty  shroud. 
Back  to  the  joyous  Alps,  who  call  to  her  aloud  ! 

VENICE. 
CANTO   IV. 

I. 
I  STOOD  in  Venice  on  the  Bridge  of  Sighs ; 
A  palace  and  a  prison  on  each  hand : 
I  saw  from  out  the  wave  her  structures  rise 
As  from  the  stroke  of  the  enchanter's  wand : 
A  thousand  years  their  cloudy  wings  expand 
Around  me,  and  a  dying  Glory  smiles 


400  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

O'er  the  far  times  when  many  a  subject  land 
Looked  to  the  winged  Lion's  marble  piles, 
Where  Venice  sate  in  state,  throned  on  her  hundred  isles. 


She  looks  a  sea  Cybele,  fresh  from  ocean. 
Rising  with  her  tiara  of  proud  towers 
At  airy  distance,  with  majestic  motion, 
A  ruler  of  the  waters  and  their  powers  : 
And  such  she  was  :  her  daughters  had  their  dowers 
From  spoils  of  nations,  and  the  exhaustless  East 
Poured  in  her  lap  all  gems  in  sparkling  showers. 
In  purple  was  she  robed,  and  of  her  feast 
Monarchs  partook,  and  deemed  their  dignity  increased. 

III. 

In  Venice  Tasso's  echoes  are  no  more, 
And  silent  rows  the  songless  gondolier ; 
Her  palaces  are  crumbling  to  the  shore. 
And  music  meets  not  always  now  the  ear : 
Those  days  are  gone  —  but  Beauty  still  is  here. 
States  fall,  arts  fade  —  but  Nature  doth  not  die, 
Nor  yet  forget  how  Venice  once  was  dear, 
The  pleasant  place  of  all  festivity. 
The  revel  of  the  earth,  the  masque  of  Italy  ! 

IV. 

But  unto  us  she  hath  a  spell  beyond 
Her  name  in  story,  and  her  long  array 
Of  mighty  shadows,  whose  dim  forms  despond 
Above  the  Dogeless  city's  vanished  sway  ; 
Ours  in  a  trophy  which  will  not  decay 
With  the  Rialto  ;  Shylock  and  the  Moor, 
And  Pierre,  cannot  be  swept  or  worn  away  — 
The  keystones  of  the  arch  !  though  all  were  o'er, 
For  us  repeopled  were  the  solitary  shore. 


LORD  BYRON.  4©  I 

THE  OCEAN. 

CANTO  IV. 
CLXXVIII. 

There  is  a  pleasure  in  the  pathless  woods, 
There  is  a  rapture  on  the  lonely  shore, 
There  is  society  where  none  intrudes, 
By  the  deep  Sea,  and  music  in  its  roar : 
I  love  not  Man  the  less,  but  Nature  more. 
From  these  our  interviews,  in  which  I  steal 
From  all  I  may  be,  or  have  been  before. 
To  mingle  with  the  Universe,  and  feel 
What  I  can  ne'er  express,  yet  cannot  all  conceal. 

CLXXIX. 

Roll  on,  thou  deep  and  dark  blue  Ocean  —  roll ! 
Ten  thousand  fleets  sweep  over  thee  in  vain  ; 
Man  marks  the  earth  with  ruin,  —  his  control 
Stops  with  the  shore  ;  upon  the  watery  plain 
The  wrecks  are  all  thy  deed,  nor  doth  remain 
A  shadow  of  man's  ravage,  save  his  own. 
When  for  a  moment,  like  a  drop  of  rain, 
He  sinks  into  thy  depths  with  bubbling  groan, 
Without  a  grave,  unknelled,  uncoffined,  and  unknown. 

CLXXX. 

His  steps  are  not  upon  thy  paths,  —  thy  fields 
Are  not  a  spoil  for  him,  —  thou  dost  arise 
And  shake  him  from  thee  ;  the  vile  strength  he  wields 
For  earth's  destruction  thou  dost  all  despise, 
Spurning  him  from  thy  bosom  to  the  skies. 
And  send'st  him,  shivering  in  thy  playful  spray 
And  howling,  to  his  gods,  where  haply  lies 
His  petty  hope  in  some  near  port  or  bay. 
And  dashest  him  again  to  earth  :  —  there  let  him  lay. 

CLXXXI. 

The  armaments  which  thunderstrike  the  walls 
Of  rock-built  cities,  bidding  nations  quake. 
And  monarchs  tremble  in  their  capitals, 
The  oak  leviathans,  whose  huge  ribs  make 
26 


402  HAND-BOOK    OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

Their  clay  creator  the  vain  title  take 
Of  lord  of  thee,  and  arbiter  of  war,  — 
These  are  thy  toys,  and,  as  the  snowy  flake, 
They  melt  into  thy  yeast  of  waves,  which  mar 
Alike  the  Armada's  pride,  or  spoils  of  Trafalgar. 

CLXXXII. 

Thy  shores  are  empires,  changed  in  all  save  thee : 
Assyria,  Greece,  Rome,  Carthage,  what  are  they  ? 
Thy  waters  wasted  them  while  they  were  free. 
And  many  a  tyrant  since  :  their  shores  obey 
The  stranger,  slave,  or  savage  :  their  decay 
Has  dried  up  realms  to  deserts  :  not  so  thou. 
Unchangeable  save  to  thy  wild  waves'  play  ; 
Time  writes  no  wrinkle  on  thine  azure  brow : 
Such  as  creation's  dawn  beheld,  thou  rollest  now. 

CLXXXIII. 

Thou  glorious  mirror,  where  the  Almighty's  form 
Glasses  itself  in  tempests  ;  in  all  time. 
Calm  or  convulsed  —  in  breeze,  or  gale,  or  storm, 
Icing  the  pole,  or  in  the  torrid  clime 
Dark-heaving  ;  boundless,  endless,  and  sublime  ; 
The  image  of  Eternity  —  the  throne 
Of  the  Invisible  ;  even  from  out  thy  slime 
The  monsters  of  the  deep  are  made  ;  each  zone 
Obeys  thee  ;  thou  goest  forth,  dread,  fathomless,  aioiit?. 

CLXXXIV. 

And  I  have  loved  thee.  Ocean  !  and  my  joy 
Of  youthful  sports  was  on  thy  breast  to  be 
Borne  like  thy  bubbles,  onward :  from  a  boy 
I  wantoned  with  thy  breakers  ;  they  to  me 
Were  a  delight ;  and  if  the  freshening  sea 
Made  them  a  terror,  'twas  a  pleasing  fear, 
For  I  was  as  it  were  a  child  of  thee, 
And  trusted  to  thy  billows  far  and  near. 
And  laid  my  hand  upon  thy  mane  —  as  I  do  her*. 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY.  403 


PERCY   BYSSHE   SHELLEY. 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley,  the  eldest  son  of  Sir  Timothy  Shelley,  and  the  representative  of 
an  ancient  house,  was  born  in  1792.  He  was  sent  to  Eton  at  the  age  of  thirteen,  and  at 
sixteen  removed  to  Oxford.  He  was  expelled,  before  finishing  his  course,  on  account  of 
having  written  a  treatise  in  defence  of  atheism.  At  nineteen  he  was  secretly  married  to  a 
young  lady  at  a  boarding-school,  below  his  own  rank,  and  was  punished  by  his  father,  the 
baronet,  by  the  loss  of  his  allowance.  When  three  years  had  passed,  and  two  children 
were  born,  Shelley  and  his  wife  separated.  He  soon  after  eloped  with  the  daughter  of  Mary 
Wolstonecraft  and  William  Godwin,  the  author,  and  lived  on  the  Continent  for  some  time. 
On  his  return  to  England,  Mrs.  Shelley  committed  suicide,  and  he  then  married  Miss  God- 
win in  form.  He  subsequently  went  to  Italy,  and  was  drowned  by  the  swamping  of  a  boat 
off  the  port  of  Leghorn,  in  his  thirtieth  year. 

The  facts  thus  briefly  stated  are  calculated  to  give  a  most  unfavorable  impression  of  the 
poet's  character ;  but  such  are  the  inconsistencies  of  human  nature  that  the  reader  must 
not  be  surprised  to  learn,  on  the  testimony  of  Shelley's  intimate  friends,  that  he  was  singu- 
larly truthful,  generous,  unselfish,  and  full  of  a  "natural  piety."  Out  of  an  income  of  one 
thousand  pounds  a  year  he  gave  more  than  a  tenth  in  charity  ;  and  at  one  time  he  raised 
fourteen  hundred  pounds  to  pay  the  debts  of  Leigh  Hunt,  who  repaid  the  loan,  after  his 
way,  by  writing  a  tender  biographical  sketch  of  his  drowned  friend. 

In  person  Shelley  was  slender,  and  his  features  were  almost  feminine  in  delicacy.  His 
eyes  and  expression  were  in  accord  with  the  characteristics  of  his  poetry.  It  is  doubtless 
vain  to  speculate,  but  it  is  highly  probable  that  this  finely-organized  man,  under  a  dif 
ferent  training  at  home,  might  have  attained  to  the  highest  place  among  poets  in  his  gen- 
eration. 

His  works,  with  notes  by  his  widow,  are  published,  in  three  volumes,  in  the  series  of 
British  Poets  edited  by  Professor  Child.  Besides  the  sketch  by  Leigh  Hunt  alluded  to,  the 
reader  can  consult  Trelawney's  Recollections,  in  which  the  author's  affection  for  Shelley  is 
as  evident  as  his  dislike  of  Byron. 

[From  Queen  Mab.] 


How  wonderful  is  Death, 
Death  and  his  brother  Sleep  ! 
One,  pale  as  yonder  waning  moon, 
With  lips  of  lurid  blue  ; 
The  other,  rosy  as  the  morn 
When,  throned  on  ocean's  wave, 
It  blushes  o'er  the  world  : 
Yet  both  so  passing  wonderful ! 

The  magic  car  moved  on. 

The  night  was  fair,  and  countless  stars 

Studded  heaven's  dark  blue  vault ;  — 

Just  o'er  the  eastern  wave 

Peeped  the  first  faint  smile  of  morn  — 


4.04  HANC-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

The  magic  car  moved  on  — 

From  the  celestial  hoofs 

The  atmosphere  in  flaming  sparkles  flew, 

And  where  the  burning  wheels 

Eddied  above  the  mountain's  loftiest  peak  — 

Was  traced  a  line  of  lightning.  • 

Now  it  flew  far  above  a  rock, 

The  utmost  verge  of  earth, 

The  rival  of  the  Andes,  whose  dark  brow 

Lowered  o'er  the  silver  sea. 

Far,  far  below  the  chariot's  path, 

Calm  as  a  slumbering  babe, 

Tremendous  Ocean  lay. 

The  mirror  of  its  stillness  showed 

The  pale  and  waning  stars, 

The  chariot's  fiery  track, 

And  the  gray  light  of  morn 

Tinging  those  fleecy  clouds 

That  canopied  the  dawn. 

Seemed  it,  that  the  chariot's  way 

Lay  through  the  midst  of  an  immense  concave, 

Radiant  with  million  constellations,  tinged 

With  shades  of  infinite  color. 

And  semicircled  with  a  belt 

Flashing  incessant  meteors. 

The  magic  car  moved  on. 

As  they  approached  their  goal, 

The  coursers  seemed  to  gather  speed  ; 

The  sea  no  longer  was  distinguished  ;  earth 

Appeared  a  vast  and  shadowy  sphere  ; 

The  sun's  unclouded  orb 

Rolled  through  the  black  concave  ; 

Its  rays  of  rapid  light 

Parted  around  the  chariot's  swifter  course, 

And  fell,  like  ocean's  feathery  spray 

Dashed  from  the  boiling  surge 

Before  a  vessel's  prow. 

The  magic  car  moved  on. 

Earth's  distant  orb  appeared 


PERCY   BYSSHE   SHELLEY.  |0<J 

The  smallest  light  that  twinkles  in  the  heaven ; 

Whilst  round  the  chariot's  way 

Innumerable  systems  rolled, 

And  countless  spheres  diffused 

An  ever- varying  glory. 

It  was  a  sight  of  wonder  :  some 

Were  horned  like  the  crescent  moon  ; 

Some  shed  a  mild  and  silver  beam 

Like  Hesperus  o'er  the  western  sea  ; 

Some  dashed  athwart  with  trains  of  flame, 

Like  worlds  to  death  and  ruin  driven  ; 

Some  shone  like  suns,  and  as  the  chariot  passed, 

Eclipsed  all  other  light. 


If  solitude  hath  ever  led  thy  steps 

To  the  wild  ocean's  echoing  shore, 

And  thou  hast  lingered  there, 

Until  the  sun's  broad  orb 

Seemed  resting  on  the  burnished  wave, 

Thou  must  have  marked  the  lines 

Of  purple  gold,  that  motionless 

Hung  o'er  the  sinking  sphere  : 

Thou  must  have  marked  the  billowy  clouds, 

Edged  with  intolerable  radiancy. 

Towering  like  rocks  of  jet 

Crowned  with  a  diamond  wreath. 

And  yet  there  is  a  moment 

When  the  sun's  highest  point 

Peeps  like  a  star  o'er  ocean's  western  edge, 

When  those  far  clouds  of  feathery  gold. 

Shaded  with  deepest  purple,  gleam 

Like  islands  on  a  dark  blue  sea  ; 

Then  has  thy  fancy  soared  above  the  earth, 

And  furled  its  wearied  wing 

Within  the  Fairy's  fane. 

Yet  not  the  golden  islands 
Gleaming  in  yon  flood  of  light, 
Nor  the  feathery  curtains 


4o6  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

Stretching  o'er  the  sun's  bright  couch, 

Nor  the  burnished  ocean-waves 

Paving  that  gorgeous  dome, 

So  fair,  so  wonderful  a  sight 

As  Mab's  ethereal  palace  could  afford. 

Yet  likest  evening's  vault,  that  fairy  hall ! 

As  heaven,  low  resting  on  the  wave,  it  spread 

Its  floors  of  flashing  light, 

Its  vast  and  azure  dome. 

Its  fertile  golden  islands 

Floating  on  a  silver  sea  ; 

Whilst  suns  their  mingling  beamings  darted 

Through  clouds  of  circumambient  darkness, 

And  pearly  battlements  around 

Looked  o'er  the  immense  of  heaven. 


TO  A    SKYLARK. 
I. 

Hail  to  thee,  blithe  spirit, 
Bird  thou  never  wert. 
That  from  heaven,  or  near  it, 
Pourest  thy  full  heart 
In  profuse  strains  of  unpremeditated  art. 

IL 

Higher  still  and  higher, 
From  the  earth  thou  springest 
Like  a  cloud  of  fire  ; 
The  blue  deep  thou  wingest. 
And  singing  still  dost  soar,  and  soaring  ever  singest. 

III. 

In  the  golden  lightning 
Of  the  sunken  sun. 
O'er  which  clouds  are  brightening. 
Thou  dost  float  and  run, 
Like  an  unbodied  joy  whose  race  is  just  begun. 


PERCY   BYSSHE   SHELLEY.  407 

IV. 

The  pale  purple  even 
Melts  around  thy  flight ; 
Like  a  star  of  heaven, 
In  the  broad  day-light 
Thou  art  unseen,  but  yet  I  hear  thy  shrill  delight. 

V. 

Keen  as  are  the  arrows 
Of  that  silver  sphere, 
Whose  intense  lamp  narrows 
In  the  white  dawn  clear, 
Until  we  hardly  see,  we  feel  that  it  is  there. 

VI. 

All  the  earth  and  air 
With  thy  voice  is  loud. 
As,  when  night  is  bare. 
From  one  lonely  cloud 
The  moon  rains  out  her  beams,  and  heaven  is  overflowed. 

VIL 

What  thou  art  we  know  not  ; 
What  is  most  like  thee  ? 
From  rainbow  clouds  there  flow  not 
Drops  so  bright  to  see, 
As  from  thy  presence  showers  a  rain  of  melody, 

VIII. 

Like  a  poet  hidden 
In  the  light  of  thought, 
Singing  hymns  unbidden. 
Till  the  world  is  wrought 
To  sympathy  with  hopes  and  fears  it  heeded  not ; 

IX. 

Like  a  high-born  maiden 
In  a  palace  tower, 
Soothing  her  love-laden 
Soul  in  secret  hour 
With  music  sweet  as  love,  which  overflows  her  bower ; 


408  HAND-BOOK   OP  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

X. 

Like  a  glowworm  golden 
In  a  dell  of  dew, 
Scattering  unbeholden 
Its  aerial  hue 
Among  the  flowers  and  grass,  which  screen  it  from  the  view ; 

XI. 

Like  a  rose  embowered 
In  its  own  green  leaves. 
By  warm  winds  deflowered, 
Till  the  scent  it  gives 
Makes  faint  with  too  much  sweet  these  heavy-winged  thieves. 

XII. 

Sound  of  vernal  showers 
On  the  tinkling  grass, 
Rain-awakened  flowers. 
All  that  ever  was 
Joyous,  and  clear,  and  fresh,  thy  music  doth  surpass. 

XIII. 

Teach  us,  sprite  or  bird, 
What  sweet  thoughts  are  thine  : 
I  have  never  heard 
Praise  of  love  or  wine 
That  panted  forth  a  flood  of  rapture  so  divine. 

XIV. 

Chorus  hymeneal. 
Or  triumphal  chaunt, 
Matched  with  thine  would  be  all 
But  an  empty  vaunt  — 
A  thing  wherein  we  feel  there  is  some  hidden  want. 

XV. 

What  objects  are  the  fountains 
Of  thy  happy  strain  ? 
What  fields,  or  waves,  or  mountains  ? 
What  shapes  of  sky  or  plain  ? 
What  love  of  thine  own  kind  ?  what  ignorance  of  pain  ? 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY.  409 

XVI. 

With  thy  clear  keen  joyance 
Languor  cannot  be  : 
Shadow  of  annoyance 
Never  came  near  thee  : 
Thou  lovest ;  but  ne'er  knew  love's  sad  satiety. 

XVII. 

Waking  or  asleep, 
Thou  of  death  must  deem 
Things  more  true  and  deep 
Than  we  mortals  dream, 
Or  how  could  thy  notes  flow  in  such  a  crystal  stream  ? 

XVIIL 

We  look  before  and  after, 
And  pine  for  what  is  not : 
Our  sincerest  laughter 
With  some  pain  is  fraught ; 
Our  sweetest  songs  are  those  that  tell  of  saddest  thought. 

XIX. 

Yet  if  we  could  scorn 
Hate,  and  pride,  and  fear  ; 
If  we  were  things  born 
Not  to  shed  a  tear, 
I  know  not  how  thy  joy  we  ever  should  come  near. 

XX. 

Better  than  all  measures 
Of  delightful  sound. 
Better  than  all  treasures 
That  in  books  are  found, 
Thy  skill  to  poet  were,  thou  scorner  of  the  ground ! 

XXI. 

Teach  me  half  the  gladness 
That  thy  brain  must  know. 
Such  harmonious  madness 
From  my  lips  would  flow. 
The  world  should  listen  then,  as  I  am  listening  now. 


410  HAND-BOOK  OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 


JOHN   KEATS. 

John  Keats  was  bom  in  London  in  1795,  and  was  educated  at  a  private  school.  He  was 
taught  Latin,  but,  though  the  most  Hellenic  of  modern  poets  (until  William  Moms  in  our 
own  times),  he  never  read  Greek,  and  derived  his  knowledge  of  the  mythology  from  a  clas- 
sical dictionary.  He  was  apprenticed  to  a  surgeon,  but  did  not  enter  the  profession,  for 
which  he  had  neither  taste  nor  the  requisite  physical  qualities.  His  first  poems  were 
attacked  in  the  Quarterly  Review  and  in  "  Blackwood"  with  a  bittemessof  personality  that 
no  respectable  magazine  in  the  world  would  now  venture  to  exhibit.  A  "cockney-poet" 
was  considered  as  fair  game  by  that  old  savage,  "Kit  North,"  as  a  "Red-skin"  was  by 
Leather-stocking. 

Keats  early  showed  consumptive  tendencies,  and  went  to  the  south  of  Europe  for  relie£ 
He  died  at  Rome  in  1821.  A  few  days  before  his  death  he  said  he  "felt  the  daisies  growing 
over  him." 

The  appreciative  reader  of  Keats  will  not  wait  for  any  eulogy  of  his  poems.  Those  that 
follow,  as  well  as  The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes,  Hyperion,  and  others,  are  "  of  imagination  all  com- 
pact," and  will  be  read  long  after  the  brutal  reviewers  are  forgotten.  His  poems  are 
published  in  one  volume  in  Professor  Child's  edition. 

ODE  TO  A   NIGHTIN'GALE. 

My  heart  aches,  and  a  drowsy  numbness  pains 
My  sense,  as  though  of  hemlock  I  had  drunk, 
Or  emptied  some  dull  opiate  to  the  drains 
One  minute  past,  and  Lethe- wards  had  sunk : 
'Tis  not  through  envy  of  thy  happy  lot, 
But  being  too  happy  in  thy  happiness,  — 
That  thou,  light-winged  Dryad  of  the  trees, 

In  some  melodious  plot 
Of  beechen  green,  and  shadows  numberless, 
Singest  of  summer  in  full-throated  ease. 

O  for  a  draught  of  vintage,  that  hath  been 
Cooled  a  long  age  in  the  deep-delved  earth, 
Tasting  of  Flora,  and  the  country  green. 
Dance,  and  Proven9al  song,  and  sun-burnt  Mirth  ! 
O  for  a  beaker  full  of  the  warm  south. 
Full  of  the  true,  the  blushful  Hippocrene, 
With  beaded  bubbles  winking  at  the  brim, 

And  purple-stained  mouth. 
That  I  might  drink,  and  leave  the  world  unseen, 
And  with  thee  fade  away  into  the  forest  dim  ;  — 

Fade  far  away,  dissolve,  and  quite  forget 

What  thou  among  the  leaves  hast  never  known  — 


JOHN   KEATS.  41 1 

The  weariness,  the  fever,  and  the  fret 
Here,  where  men  sit  and  hear  each  other  groan  ; 
Where  palsy  shakes  a  few,  sad,  last  gray  hairs, 
Where  youth  grows  pale,  and  spectre-thin,  and  dies ; 
Where  but  to  think  is  to  be  full  of  sorrow 

And  leaden-eyed  despairs  ; 
Where  Beauty  cannot  keep  her  lustrous  eyes, 
Or  new  Love  pine  at  them  beyond  to-morrow. 

Away  !  away  !  for  I  will  fly  to  thee, 
Not  charioted  by  Bacchus  and  his  pards, 
But  on  the  viewless  wings  of  Poesy, 
Though  the  dull  brain  perplexes  and  retards : 
Already  with  thee  !  tender  is  the  night. 
And  haply  the  Queen-Moon  is  on  her  throne, 
Clustered  around  by  all  her  starry  Fays  ; 

But  here  there  is  no  light, 
Save  what  from  heaven  is  with  the  breezes  blown 
Through  verdurous  glooms  and  winding  mossy  ways. 

I  cannot  see  what  flowers  are  at  my  feet. 
Nor  what  soft  incense  hangs  upon  the  boughs, 
But,  in  embalmed  darkness,  guess  each  sweet 
Wherewith  the  seasonable  month  endows 
The  grass,  the  thicket,  and  the  fruit  tree  wild ; 
White  hawthorn,  and  the  pastoral  eglantine  ; 
Fast-fading  violets  covered  up  in  leaves  ; 

And  mid-May's  eldest  child, 
The  coming  musk-rose,  full  of  dewy  wine. 
The  murmurous  haunt  of  flies  on  summer  eves. 

Darkling  I  hsten  ;  and  for  many  a  time 

I  have  been  half  in  love  with  easeful  Death, 

Called  him  soft  names  in  many  a  mused  rhyme, 

To  take  into  the  air  my  quiet  breath  ; 

Now  more  than  ever  seems  it  rich  to  die, 

To  cease  upon  the  midnight  with  no  pain, 

While  thou  art  pouring  forth  thy  soul  abroad 

In  such  an  ecstasy ! 
Still  wouldst  thou  sing,  and  I  have  ears  in  vain  — 
To  thy  high  requiem  become  a  sod. 


412  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

Thou  wast  not  born  for  death,  immortal  Bird  ! 
No  hungry  generations  tread  thee  down  ; 
The  voice  I  hear  this  passing  night  was  heard 
In  ancient  days  by  emperor  and  clown  : 
Perhaps  the  self-same  song  that  found  a  path 
Through  the  sad  heart  of  Ruth,  when,  sick  for  home, 
She  stood  in  tears  amid  the  alien  corn  ; 

The  same  that  oft-times  hath 
Charmed  magic  casements,  opening  on  the  foam 
Of  perilous  seas,  in  faery  lands  forlorn. 

Forlorn  !  the  very  word  is  like  a  bell 
To  toll  me  back  from  thee  to  my  sole  self ! 
Adieu  !  the  fancy  cannot  cheat  so  well 
As  she  is  famed  to  do,  deceiving  elf. 
Adieu  !  adieu  !  thy  plaintive  anthem  fades 
Past  the  near  meadows,  over  the  still  stream, 
Up  the  hill-side  ;  and  now  'tis  buried  deep 

In  the  next  valley-glades  : 
Was  it  a  vision,  or  a  waking  dream  ? 
Fled  is  that  music  :  —  do  I  wake  or  sleep  .'* 


TO   AUTUMN. 

Season  of  ^mists  and  mellow  fruitfulness  ! 

Close  bosom-friend  of  the  maturing  sun  ; 

Conspiring  with  him  how  to  load  and  bless 

With  fruit  the  vines  that  round  the  thatch-eaves  xun 

To  bend  with  apples  the  mossed  cottage  trees, 

And  fill  all  fruit  with  ripeness  to  the  core  ; 

To  swell  the  gourd,  and  plump  the  hazel  shells 

With  a  sweet  kernel ;  to  set  budding  more, 

And  still  more,  later  flowers  for  the  bees. 

Until  they  think  warm  days  will  never  cease, 

For  Summer  has  o'er-brimmed  their  clammy  cells. 

Who  hath  not  seen  thee  oft  amid  thy  store  ? 
Sometimes  whoever  seeks  abroad  may  find 
Thee  sitting  careless  on  a  granary  floor, 
Thy  hair  soft-lifted  by  the  winnowing  wind ; 
Or  on  a  half-reaped  furrow,  sound  asleep, 


JOHN   KEATS.  413 

Drowsed  with  the  fume  of  poppies,  while  thy  hook       • 

Spares  the  next  swath  and  all  its  twined  flowers  ; 

And  sometime  like  a  gleaner  thou  dost  keep 

Steady  thy  laden  head  across  a  brook ; 

Or  by  a  cider-press,  with  patient  look, 

Thou  watchest  the  last  oozings,  hours  by  hours. 

Where  are  the  songs  of  Spring  ?     Ay,  where  are  they  ? 

Think  not  of  them  ;  thou  hast  thy  music  too. 

While  barred  clouds  bloom  the  soft-dying  day, 

And  touch  the  stubble-plains  with  rosy  hue  ; 

Then  in  a  wailful  choir  the  small  gnats  mourn 

Among  the  river  sallows,  borne  aloft 

Or  sinking  as  the  light  wind  lives  or  dies  ; 

And  full-grown  lambs  loud  bleat  from  hilly  bourn  ; 

Hedge-crickets  sing  ;  and  now  with  treble  soft 

The  redbreast  whistles  from  a  garden-croft, 

And  gathering  swallows  twitter  in  the  skies. 


ODE  ON  A   GRECIAN   URN. 

Thou  still  unravished  bride  of  quietness, 

Thou  foster-child  of  Silence  and  slow  Time, 

Sylvan  historian,  who  canst  thus  express 

A  flowery  tale  more  sweetly  than  our  rhyme  : 

What  leaf-fringed  legend  haunts  about  thy  shape 

Of  deities  or  mortals,  or  of  both, 

In  Tempe  or  the  dales  of  Arcady  ? 

What  men  or  gods  are  these  ?     What  maidens  loath  ? 

What  mad  pursuit  ?     What  struggle  to  escape  ? 

What  pipes  and  timbrels  ?     What  wild  ecstasy  ? 

Heard  melodies  are  sweet,  but  those  unheard 
Are  sweeter  ;  therefore,  ye  soft  pipes,  play  on  ; 
Not  to  the  sensual  ear,  but,  more  endeared. 
Pipe  to  the  spirit  ditties  of  no  tone  : 
Fair  youth,  beneath  the  trees  thou  canst  not  leave 
Thy  song,  nor  ever  can  those  trees  be  bare  ; 
Bold  Lover,  never,  never  canst  thou  kiss. 
Though  winning  near  the  goal  —  yet  do  not  grieve  : 


4^4  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

.She  cannot  fade,  though  thou  hast  not  thy  bliss, 
For  ever  wilt  thou  love,  and  she  be  fair ! 

Ah,  happy,  happy  boughs  !  that  cannot  shed 

Your  leaves,  nor  ever  bid  the  Spring  adieu  ; 

And,  happy  melodist,  unwearied. 

Forever  piping  songs  forever  new  ; 

More  happy  love  !  more  happy,  happy  love  ! 

Forever  warm,  and  still  to  be  enjoyed, 

Forever  panting  and  forever  young  ; 

All  breathing  human  passion  far  above. 

That  leaves  a  heart  high,  sorrowful,  and  cloyed, 

A  burning  forehead,  and  a  parching  tongue. 

Who  are  these  coming  to  the  sacrifice  ? 
To  what  green  altar,  O  mysterious  priest, 
Lead'st  thou  that  heifer  lowing  at  the  skies. 
And  all  her  silken  flanks  with  garlands  drest  ? 
What  little  town  by  river  or  sea-shore. 
Or  mountain-built  with  peaceful  citadel. 
Is  emptied  of  its  folk,  this  pious  morn  ? 
And,  little  town,  thy  streets  forevermore 
Will  silent  be  ;  and  not  a  soul,  to  tell 
Why  thou  art  desolate,  can  e'er  return. 

O  Attic  shape  !     Fair  attitude  !  with  brede 
Of  marble  men  and  maidens  overwrought, 
With  forest  branches  and  the  trodden  weed  ; 
Thou,  silent  form  !  dost  tease  us  out  of  thought 
As  doth  eternity  !    Cold  Pastoral ! 
When  old  age  shall  this  generation  waste. 
Thou  shalt  remain,  in  midst  of  other  woe 
Than  ours,  a  friend  to  man,  to  whom  thou  say'st, 
"  Beauty  is  truth,  truth  beauty,"  —  that  is  all 
Ye  know  on  earth,  and  all  ye  need  to  know. 


THOMAS   CARLYLE.  4I5 


THOMAS   CARLYLE. 

Thomas  Carlyle  was  bom  in  Scotland  in  1795,  and  was  educated  at  Edinburgh.  His 
original  purpose  was  to  enter  the  ministry  of  religion,  but  he  soon  became  convinced  that 
his  true  calling  was  to  the  literary  profession.  He  has  been  a  most  industrious  writer,  and 
in  all  of  the  widely-different  topics  he  has  treated,  he  has  shown  the  power  of  an  original 
mind,  stored  with  varied  reading.  He  was  the  first  to  direct  the  attention  of  scholars  to 
the  treasures  of  German  literature  ;  and  his  translations,  especially  of  Goethe's  works,  are 
at  once  powerful,  accurate,  and  graceful.  He  was  a  contributor  to  the  London  Magazine, 
mentioned  in  previous  notices  of  Campbell,  Hood,  and  Lamb,  also  to  the  Edinburgh  Re- 
view, the  Foreign  Quarterly,  Eraser's  Magazine,  and  other  periodicals.  In  his  capacity  of 
critic  Carlyle  stands  alone.  Macaulay  is  learned,  vivacious,  and  elegant ;  Sydney  Smith, 
vigorous  and  witty :  Jeffrey,  careful,  considerate,  and  seldom  dull ;  but  Carlyle  has  brought 
to  the  review  a  combination  of  acuteness,  force,  imagination,  and  descriptive  power,  for 
which  our  literature  furnishes  no  parallel.  The  essays  on  Burns,  Voltaire,  Jean  Paul  may 
be  cited  as  specimens  of  his  original,  vivid,  and  profound  treatment  of  subjects  that  task 
the  best  powers  of  the  mind.  His  History  of  the  French  Revolutio.i  is  a  remarkable  work 
—  "not  so  much  a  history  as  a  grand  collection  of  historical  pictures,  painted  with  fire  and 
darkness."  Sartor  Resartus  is  the  odd  title  of  a  most  unique  book,  in  which,  under  the 
guise  of  a  discussion  upon  clothes,  the  profoundest  problems  are  dealt  with  ;  the  style,  how- 
ever, is  rugged,  vague,  un-English,  and  capriciously  ungraceful.  The  Life  of  Cromwell  is 
written  in  strong  sympathy  with  the  great  parliamentary  leader,  and  is  believed  to  repre- 
sent more  truly  the  real  nature  of  the  man  than  do  the  prejudiced  accounts  of  Clarendon 
and  other  hostile  writers.  His  most  extended  work  is  his  History  of  Frederick  the  Great. 
It  must  be  admitted  that  his  admiration  for  the  strength  of  Frederick's  character  has  made 
him  too  lenient  towards  his  great  faults,  and  has  insensibly  influenced  him  to  gloss  over 
some  of  the  darker  passages  in  the  life  of  his  hero.  But  it  is  a  magnificent  work  —  a  pan- 
orama that  presents  to  us  the  events,  the  ruling  and  famous  personages,  and  the  manners 
of  the  century,  in  unbroken  succession.  After  making  due  deductions  for  the  tedious  gen- 
ealogies, for  the  eccentricities  of  style,  and  for  occasional  unfairness,  it  is  still  almost  with- 
out a  rival  among  histories  in  its  sustained  power  and  absorbing  interest. 

His  other  works  are  a  Life  of  John  Sterling  (a  book  full  of  kindliness),  Latter  Day 
Pamphlets,  Heroes  and  Hero  Worship,  and  Lectures  on  various  topics. 

It  is  too  soon,  probably,  to  estimate  correctly  the  genius  of  this  remarkable  man  :  but  it 
is  certain  that  he  has  more  than  any  modem  writer  affected  the  thinking  of  his  contem- 
poraries. 

He  was  married  at  the  age  of  thirty-one  to  a  lineal  descendant  of  John  Knox,  the  Scotch 
reformer.  Though  ignorantly  classed  by  loose  writers  with  the  adherents  of  German  irre- 
ligion,  Carlyle  is  a  Calvinist  in  his  belief,  and  has  inculcated  the  highest  principles  of  truth 
and  moral  obligation.  His  manners  are  not  gracious,  and  he  is  not  free  from  the  common 
errors  and  prejudices  of  his  countrymen  in  regard  to  this  country.  Upon  this  general  topic 
the  reader  can  see  Professor  Lowell's  paper  in  a  recent  volume.  On  a  Certain  Condescension 
in  Foreigners. 

[From  the  Essay  on  Bums.] 

.  .  .  We  love  Burns,  and  we  pity  him  ;  and  love  and  pity  are 
prone  to  magnify.  Criticism,  it  is  sometimes  thought,  should  be  a 
cold  business  ;  we  are  not  so  sure  of  this ;  but,  at  all  events,  our 
concern  with  Burns  is  not  exclusively  that  of  critics.  True  and 
genial  as  his  poetry  must  appear,  it  is  not  chiefly  as  a  poet,  but  as  a 


4l6  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

man,  that  he  interests  and  affects  us.  He  was  often  advised  to  write 
a  tragedy :  time  and  means  were  not  lent  him  for  this  ;  but  through 
life  he  enacted  a  tragedy,  and  one  of  the  deepest.  We  question 
whether  the  world  has  since  witnessed  so  utterly  sad  a  scene  ; 
whether  Napoleon  himself,  left  to  brawl  with  Sir  Hudson  Lowe,  and 
perish  on  his  rock,  "  amid  the  melancholy  main,"  presented  to  the 
reflecting  mind  such  a  "  spectacle  of  pity  and  fear,"  as  did  this  intrin- 
sically nobler,  gentler,  and  perhaps  greater  soul,  wasting  itself  away 
in  a  hopeless  struggle  with  base  entanglements,  which  coiled  closer 
and  closer  round  him,  till  only  death  opened  him  an  outlet.  Con- 
querors are  a  race  with  whom  the  world  could  well  dispense  ;  nor 
can  the  hard  intellect,  the  unsympathizing  loftiness,  and  high  but 
selfish  enthusiasm  of  such  persons,  inspire  us  in  general  with  any 
affection  ;  at  best  it  may  excite  amazement ;  and  their  fall,  like  that 
of  a  pyramid,  will  be  beheld  with  a  certain  sadness  and  awe.  But  a 
true  Poet,  a  man  in  whose  heart  resides  some  effluence  of  Wisdom, 
some  tone  of  the  "  Eternal  Melodies,"  is  the  most  precious  gift  that 
can  be  bestowed  on  a  generation  :  we  see  in  him  a  freer,  purer,  de- 
velopment of  whatever  is  noblest  in  ourselves  ;  his  hfe  is  a  rich 
lesson  to  us,  and  we  mourn  his  death,  as  that  of  a  benefactor  who 
loved  and  taught  us. 

Such  a  gift  had  Nature  in  her  bounty  bestowed  on  us  in  Robert 
Burns  ;  but  with  queen-like  indifference  she  cast  it  from  her  hand, 
like  a  thing  of  no  moment ;  and  it  was  defaced  and  torn  asunder,  as 
an  idle  bauble,  before  we  recognized  it.  To  the  ill-starred  Bums 
was  given  the  power  of  making  man's  life  more  venerable,  but  that 
of  wisely  guiding  his  own  was  not  given.  Destiny, — for  so  in  our 
ignorance  we  must  speak,  —  his  faults,  the  faults  of  others,  proved 
too  hard  for  him  ;  and  that  spirit,  which  might  have  soared,  could  it 
but  have  walked,  soon  sank  to  the  dust,  its  glorious  faculties  trodden 
under  foot  in  the  blossom,  and  died,  we  may  almost  say,  without  ever 
having  lived.  And  so  kind  and  warm  a  soul ;  so  full  of  inborn 
riches,  of  love  to  all  living  and  lifeless  things  !  How  his  heart  flows 
out  in  sympathy  over  universal  nature  ;  and  in  her  bleakest  prov- 
inces discerns  a  beauty  and  a  meaning  !  The  "  Daisy  "  falls  not 
unheeded  under  his  ploughshare  ;  nor  the  ruined  nest  of  that 
"wee,  cowering,  timorous  beastie,"  cast  forth,  after  all  its  prov- 
ident pains,  to  "thole  the  sleety  dribble,  and  cranreuch  cauld." 
The  "  hoar  visage  "  of  Winter  delights  him :  he  dwells  with  a  sad 
and  oft-returning  fondness  in  these  scenes  of  solemn  desolation ; 
but  the  voice  of  the  tempest  becomes  an  anthem  to  his  ears  ;  he 


THOMAS   CARLYLE.  417 

loves  to  walk  in  the  sounding  woods,  for  "  it  raises  his  thoughts  to 
Hiin  that  walketh  on  the  wings  of  the  wind.''''     A  true  Poet-soul, 
for  it  needs  but  to  be  struck,  and  the  sound  it  yields  will  be  music ! 
But  observe  him  chiefly  as  he  mingles  with  his  brother  men.     What 
warm,   all-comprehending,  fellow-feeling,    what   trustful,   boundless 
love,  what  generous  exaggeration  of  the  object  loved  !     His  rustic 
friend,  his  nut-brown  maiden,  are  no  longer  mean  and  homely,  but 
a  hero  and  a  queen,  whom  he  prizes  as  the  paragons  of  Earth.    The 
rough  scenes  of  Scottish  life,  not  seen  by  him  in  any  Arcadian  illu- 
sion, but  in  the  rude  contradiction,  in  the  smoke  and  soil  of  a  too 
harsh  reality,  are  still  lovely  to  him  :    Poverty  is  indeed  his  com- 
panion, but  Love  also,  and  Courage  ;  the  simple  feelings,  the  worth, 
the  nobleness,  that  dwell  under  the  straw  roof,  are  dear  and  vener- 
able to  his  heart ;  and  thus  over  the  lowest  provinces  of  man's  ex- 
istence he  pours  the  glory  of  his  own  soul ;  and  they  rise,  in  shadow 
and  sunshine,  softened  and  brightened  into  a  beauty  which  other 
eyes  discern  not  in  the  highest.     He  has  a  just  self-consciousness, 
which  too  often  degenerates  into  pride  ;  yet  it  is  a  noble  pride,  for  de- 
fence, not  for  offence,  no  cold,  suspicious  feeling,  but  a  frank  and  social 
one.     The  Peasant-Poet  bears  himself,  we  might  say,  like  a  King  in 
exile  :  he  is  cast  among  the  low,  and  feels  himself  equal  to  the  high- 
est ;  yet  he  claims  no  rank,  that  none  may  be  disputed  to  him.    The 
forward  he  can  repel,  the  supercilious  he  can  subdue ;  pretensions 
of  wealth  or  ancestry  are  of  no  avail  with  him  ;  there  is  a  fire  in  that 
dark  eye,  under  which  the    "  insolence  of  condescension  "  cannot 
thrive.     In  his  abasement,  in  his  extreme  need,  he  forgets  not  for  a 
moment  the  majesty  of  Poetry  and  Manhood.     And  yet,  far  as  he 
feels  himself  above  common  men,  he  wanders  not  apart  from  them, 
but  mixes  warmly  in  their  interests  ;  nay,  throws  himself  into  their 
arms  ;  and,  as  it  were,  entreats  them  to  love  him.     It  is  moving  to 
see  how,  in  his  darkest  despondency,  this  proud  being  still  seeks 
relief  from  friendship  ;  unbosoms  himself;  often  to  the  unworthy ; 
and,  amid  tears,  strains  to  his  glowing  heart  a  heart  that  knows  only 
the  name  of  friendship.     And  yet  he  was  "  quick  to  learn  ;  "  a  man 
of  keen  vision,  before  whom  common  disguises  afforded  no  conceal- 
ment.    His  understanding  saw  through  the  hollowness  even  of  ac- 
complished deceivers  ;  but  there  was  a  generous  credulity  in  his 
Heart.     And  so  did  our  Peasant  show  himself  among  us  ;  "a  soul 
like  an  i^olian  harp,  in  whose  strings  the  vulgar  wind,  as  it  passed 
through  them,  changed  itself  into  articulate  melody."    And  this  was 
he  for  whom  the  world  found  no  fitter  business  than  quarrelling  with 

27 


41 8  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

smugglers  and  vintners,  computing  excise  dues  upon  tallow,  and 
gauging  ale  barrels  !  In  such  toils  was  that  mighty  spirit  sorrow- 
fully wasted :  and  a  hundred  years  may  pass,  before  another  such 
is  given  us  to  waste. 

Independently  of  the  essential  gift  of  poetic  feeling,  as  we  have 
now  attempted  to  describe  it,  a  certain  rugged  sterling  worth  per- 
vades whatever  Burns  has  written :  a  virtue,  as  of  green  fields  and 
mountain  breezes,  dwells  in  his  poetry  ;  it  is  redolent  of  natural  life, 
and  of  hardy,  natural  men.  There  is  a  decisive  strength  in  him ; 
and  yet  a  sweet  native  gracefulness  :  he  is  tender,  and  he  is  vehe- 
ment, yet  without  constraint  or  too  visible  eifort ;  he  melts  the  heart, 
or  inflames  it,  with  a  power  which  seems  habitual  and  famihar  to 
him.  We  see  in  him  the  gentleness,  the  trembling  pity  of  a  woman, 
with  the  deep  earnestness,  the  force  and  passionate  ardor  of  a  hero. 
Tears  lie  in  him,  and  consuming  fire  ;  as  lightning  lurks  in  the  drops 
of  the  summer  cloud.  He  has  a  resonance  in  his  bosom  for  every 
note  of  human  feeling :  the  high  and  the  low,  the  sad,  the  ludicrous, 
the  joyful,  are  welcome  in  their  turns  to  his  "lightly  moved  and  all- 
conceiving  spirit."  And  observe  with  what  a  prompt  and  eager  force 
he  grasps  his  subject,  be  it  what  it  may  !  How  he  fixes,  as  it  were, 
the  full  image  of  the  matter  in  his  eye  ;  full  and  clear  in  every  linea- 
ment ;  and  catches  the  real  type  and  essence  of  it,  amid  a  thousand 
accidents  and  superficial  circumstances,  no  one  of  which  misleads 
him  !  Is  it  of  reason  ;  some  truth  to  be  discovered  ?  No  sophistry, 
no  vain  surface-logic  detains  him  ;  quick,  resolute,  unerring,  he  pierces 
through  into  the  marrow  of  the  question  ;  and  speaks  his  verdict  with 
an  emphasis  that  cannot  be  forgotten.  Is  it  of  description  ;  some 
visual  object  to  be  represented  ?  No  poet  of  any  age  or  nation  is  more 
graphic  than  Burns  :  the  characteristic  features  disclose  themselves  to 
him  at  a  glance  ;  three  lines  from  his  hand,  and  we  have  a  likeness. 
And,  in  that  rough  dialect,  in  that  rude,  often  awkward,  metre,  so 
clear,  and  definite  a  likeness  !  It  seems  a  draughtsman  working 
with  a  burnt  stick  ;  and  yet  the  burin  of  a  Retzsch  is  not  more  ex- 
pressive or  exact. 

But  by  far  the  most  finished,  complete,  and  truly  inspired  pieces 
of  Burns  are,  without  dispute,  to  be  found  among  his  Songs.  It  is 
here  that,  although  through  a  small  aperture,  his  light  shines  with 
the  least  obstruction  ;  in  its  highest  beauty,  and  pure  sunny  clear- 
ness.    The  reason  may  be,  that  Song  is  a  brief  and  simple  species 


THOMAS   CARLYLE.  4I9 

of  composition  ;  and  requires  nothing  so  much  for  its  perfection  as 
genuine  poetic  feeling,  genuine  music  of  heart.  The  song  has  its 
rules  equally  with  the  Tragedy  ;  rules  which  in  most  cases  are 
poorly  fulfilled,  in  many  cases  are  not  so  much  as  felt.  We  might 
write  a  long  essay  on  the  Songs  of  Burns  ;  which  we  reckon  by  far  the 
best  that  Britain  has  yet  produced ;  for,  indeed,  since  the  era  of 
Queen  Elizabeth,  we  know  not  that,  by  any  other  hand,  aught  truly 
worth  attention  has  been  accomplished  in  this  department. 

Independently  of  the  clear,  manly,  heartfelt  sentiment  that  ever 
pervades  his  poetry,  his  Songs  are  honest  in  another  point  of  view : 
in  form,  as  well  as  in  spirit.  They  do  not  affect  to  be  set  to 
music,  but  they  actually  and  in  themselves  are  music ;  they  have 
received  their  life,  and  fashioned  themselves  together,  in  the  medium 
of  Harmony,  as  Venus  rose  from  the  bosom  of  the  sea.  The  story, 
the  feeling,  is  not  detailed,  but  suggested  ;  not  said^  or  spouted,  in 
rhetorical  completeness  and  coherence  ;  but  stingy  in  fitful  gushes,  in 
glowing  hints,  in  fantastic  breaks,  in  warblings  not  of  the  voice 
only,  but  of  the  whole  mind.  We  consider  this  to  be  the  essence 
of  a  song ;  and  that  no  songs  since  the  little  careless  catches,  and, 
as  it  were,  drops  of  song,  which  Shakespeare  has  here  and  there 
sprinkled  over  his  plays,  fulfil  this  condition  in  nearly  the  same  de- 
gree as  most  of  Burns's  do.  Such  grace  and  truth  of  external 
movement,  too,  presupposes  in  general  a  corresponding  force  and 
truth  of  sentiment,  and  inward  meaning.  The  Songs  of  Burns  are 
not  more  perfect  in  the  former  quality  than  in  the  latter.  With  what 
tenderness  he  sings,  yet  with  what  vehemence  and  entireness  ! 
There  is  a  piercing  wail  in  his  sorrow,  the  purest  rapture  in  his  joy : 
he  burns  with  the  sternest  ire,  or  laughs  with  the  loudest  or  slyest 
mirth  ;  and  yet  he  is  sweet  and  soft,  "  sweet  as  the  smile  when  fond 
lovers  meet,  and  soft  as  their  parting  tear  !  "  If  we  farther  take  into 
account  the  immense  variety  of  his  subjects ;  how,  from  the  loud 
flowing  revel  in  Willie  brewed  a  peck  o'Majil,  to  the  still,  rapt  enthu- 
siasm of  sadness  for  Mary  in  Heaven  j  from  the  glad  kind  greet- 
ing of  Auld  Lang  Syne,  or  the  comic  archness  of  Duncan  Gray^ 
to  the  fire-eyed  fury  of  Scots,  wha  hae  ivV  Wallace  bled,  he  has 
found  a  tone  and  words  for  every  mood  of  man's  heart,  —  it  will  seem 
a  small  praise  if  we  rank  him  as  the  first  of  all  our  song-writers  ; 
for  we  know  not  where  to  find  one  worthy  of  being  second  to  him. 

It  is  on  his  Songs,  as  we  believe,  that  Burns's  chief  influence  as 
an  author  will  ultimately  be  found  to  depend :  nor,  if  our  Fletcher's 


420  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

aphorism  is  true,  shall  we  account  this  a  small  influence.  "  Let  me 
make  the  songs  of  a  people,"  said  he,  "  and  you  shall  make  its 
laws."  Surely,  if  ever  any  Poet  might  have  equalled  himself  with 
Legislators,  on  this  ground,  it  was  Burns.  His  songs  are  already  part 
of  the  mother  tongue,  not  of  Scotland  only  but  of  Britain,  and  of  the 
millions  that  in  all  the  ends  of  the  earth  speak  a  British  language.  In 
hut  and  hall,  as  the  heart  unfolds  itself  in  the  joy  and  wo  of  exist- 
ence, the  name,  the  voice  of  that  joy  and  that  wo,  is  the  name  and 
voice  which  Burns  has  given  them.  Strictly  speaking,  perhaps,  no 
British  man  has  so  deeply  affected  the  thoughts  and  feelings  of  so 
many  men  as  this  solitary  and  altogether  private  individual,  with 
means  apparently  the  humblest. 

With  our  readers  in  general,  with  men  of  right  feeling  anywhere, 
we  are  not  required  to  plead  for  Burns.  In  pitying  admiration,  he 
lies  enshrined  in  all  our  hearts,  in  a  far  nobler  mausoleum  than  that 
one  of  marble  ;  neither  will  his  Works,  even  as  they  are,  pass  away 
from  the  memory  of  men.  While  the  Shakespeares  and  Miltons 
roll  on  like  mighty  rivers  through  the  country  of  Thought,  bearing 
fleets  of  traffickers  and  assiduous  pearl-fishers  on  their  waves  ;  this 
little  Valclusa  Fountain  will  also  arrest  our  eye  :  For  this  also  is  of 
Nature's  own  and  most  cunning  workmanship,  bursts  from  the 
depths  of  the  earth,  with  a  full  gushing  current,  into  the  light  of 
day ;  and  often  will  the  traveller  turn  aside  to  drink  of  its  clear 
waters,  and  muse  among  its  rocks  and  pines  ! 

[From  the  Essay  on  Voltaire.] 

How  many  Demagogues,  Croesuses,  Conquerors  fill  their  own  age 
with  joy  or  terror,  with  a  tumult  that  promises  to  be  perennial ;  and 
in  the  next  age  die  away  into  insignificance  and  oblivion  !  These 
are  the  forests  of  gourds,  that  overtop  the  infant  cedars  and  aloe- 
trees,  but,  like  the  Prophet's  gourd,  wither  on  the  third  day.  What 
was  it  to  the  Pharaohs  of  Egypt,  in  that  old  era,  if  Jethro  the  Midi- 
anitish  priest  and  grazier  accepted  the  Hebrew  outlaw  as  his  herds- 
man ?  Yet  the  Pharaohs,  with  all  their  chariots  of  war,  are  buried 
deep  in  the  wrecks  of  time ;  and  that  Moses  still  lives,  not  among 
his  own  tribe  only,  but  in  the  hearts  and  daily  business  of  all  civil- 
ized nations.  Or  figure  Mahomet,  in  his  youthful  years,  "  travelling  to 
the  horse-fairs  of  Syria  !  "  Nay,  to  take  an  infinitely  higher  instance, 
who  has  ever  forgotten  those  lines  of  Tacitus  ;  inserted  as  a  small, 
transitory,  altogether  trifling  circumstance  in  the  history  of  such  a 


THOMAS   CARLYLE.  421 

potentate  as  Nero  ?     To  us  it  is  the  most  earnest,  sad,  and  sternly 
significant  passage  that  we  know  to  exist  in  writing. 

"  So,  for  the  quieting  of  this  rumor,  [i.  e.,  that  he  had  caused  the 
burning  of  Rome],  Nero  judicially  charged  with  the  crime,  and 
punished  with  most  studied  severities,  that  class,  hated  for  their  gen- 
eral wickedness,  whom  the  vulgar  call  Christians.  The  originator 
of  that  name  was  one  Christ,  who,  in  the  reign  of  Tiberius,  suffered 
death  by  sentence  of  the  procurator,  Pontius  Pilate.  The  baneful 
superstition,  thereby  repressed  for  the  time,  again  broke  out,  not 
only  over  Judea,  the  native  soil  of  that  mischief,  but  in  the  City  also, 
where  from  every  side  all  atrocious  and  abominable  things  collect  and 
flourish."  *  Tacitus  was  the  wisest,  most  penetrating  man  of  his 
generation  ;  and  to  such  depth,  and  no  deeper,  has  he  seen  into  this 
transaction,  the  most  important  that  has  occurred  or  can  occur  in  the 
annals  of  mankind. 

Doubtless  he  loved  truth,  doubtless  he  partially  felt  himself  to 
be  advocating  truth  ;  nay,  we  know  not  that  he  has  ever  yet,  in  a 
single  instance,  been  convicted  of  wilfully  perverting  his  belief;  of 
uttering,  in  all  his  controversies,  one  deliberate  falsehood.  Nor 
should  this  negative  praise  seem  an  altogether  slight  one,  for  greatly 
were  it  to  be  wished  that  even  the  best  of  his  better-intentioned  op- 
ponents had  always  deserved  the  Hke.  Nevertheless,  his  love  of 
truth  is  not  that  deep,  infinite  love,  which  beseems  a  Philosopher ; 
which  many  ages  have  been  fortunate  enough  to  witness  ;  nay,  of 
which  his  own  age  had  still  some  examples.  It  is  a  far  inferior  love, 
we  should  say,  to  that  of  poor  Jean  Jacques,  half-sage,  half-maniac  as 
he  was  ;  it  is  more  a  prudent  calculation  than  a  passion.  Voltaire 
loves  Truth,  but  chiefly  of  the  triumphant  sort ;  we  have  no  instance 
of  his  fighting  for  a  quite  discrowned  and  outcast  Truth  ;  it  is  chiefly 
when  she  walks  abroad,  in  distress,  it  may  be,  but  still  with  queen- 
like insignia,  and  knighthoods  and  renown  are  to  be  earned  in  her 
battles,  that  he  defends  her,  that  he  charges  gallantly  against  the 
Cades  and  Tylers. 

Of  all  men,  Voltaire  has  the  least  disposition  to  increase  the  Army 
of  Martyrs.    No  testimony  will  he  seal  with  his  blood  ;  scarcely  any 

*  Ergo  abolendo  rumori  Nero  subdidit  reos,  et  quaesitissimis  poenis  affecit,  quos  pe< 
flagitia  invisos,  vulgus  Christianos  appellabat.  Auctor  nominis  ejus  Christus,  qui,  Tiberio 
imperitante,  per  Procuratorem  Pontium  Pilatum  supplicio  aflFectus  erat.  Repressaque  in 
praesens  exitiabilis  superstitio  rursus  erumpebat,  non  mode  per  Judceam  originem  ejus  mali, 
sed  per  urbem  etiam,  quo  cuncta  undique  atrocia  aut  pudenda  confluunt,  celebranturque. 


422  HAND-BOOK  OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

will  he  so  much  as  sign  with  ink.  His  obnoxious  doctrines,  as  we 
have  remarked,  he  publishes  under  a  thousand  concealments  ;  with 
underplots  and  wheels  within  wheels ;  so  that  his  whole  track  is  in 
darkness,  only  his  works  see  the  light.  No  Proteus  is  so  nimble,  or 
assumes  so  many  shapes  ;  if,  by  rare  chance,  caught  sleeping,  he 
whisks  through  the  smallest  hole,  and  is  out  of  sight,  while  the  noose 
is  getting  ready.  Let  his  judges  take  him  to  task,  he  will  shuffle 
and  evade  ;  if  directly  questioned,  he  will  even  lie. 

Perhaps  it  is  this  very  power  of  Order,  of  rapid,  perspicuous  Ar- 
rangement, that  lies  at  the  root  of  Voltaire's  best  gifts ;  or  rather, 
we  should  say,  it  is  that  keen,  accurate  intellectual  vision,  from 
which,  to  a  mind  of  any  intensity.  Order  naturally  arises.  This 
clear  quick  vision,  and  the  methodic  arrangement  which  springs 
from  it,  are  looked  upon  as  peculiarly  French  qualities  ;  and  Voltaire, 
at  all  times,  manifests  them  in  a  more  than  French  degree. 

In  truth,  readily  as  we  have  recognized  his  spirit  of  Method,  with 
its  many  uses,  we  are  far  from  ascribing  to  him  any  perceptible  por- 
tion of  that  greatest  praise  in  thinking,  or  in  writing,  the  praise  of 
philosophic,  still  less  of  poetic  Method,  which,  especially  the  latter, 
must  be  the  fruit  of  deep  feeling  as  well  as  of  clear  vision,  —  of  gen- 
ius as  well  as  of  talent ;  and  is  much  more  likely  to  be  found  in  the 
compositions  of  a  Hooker,  or  a  Shakespeare,  than  of  a  Voltaire. 
The  Method  discernible  in  Voltaire,  and  this  on  all  subjects  what- 
ever, is  a  purely  business  Method.  The  order  that  arises  from  it  is 
not  Beauty,  but,  at  best.  Regularity.  His  objects  do  not  lie  round 
him  in  pictorial,  not  always  in  scientific  grouping  ;  but  rather  in  com- 
modious rows,  where  each  may  be  seen  and  come  at,  like  goods  in  a 
well-kept  ware-house.  We  might  say  there  is  not  the  deep  natural 
symmetry  of  a  forest  oak,  but  the  simple  artificial  symmetry  of  a 
parlor  chandelier.  Compare,  for  example,  the  plan  of  the  Henriade 
to  that  of  our  so  barbarous  Hamlet.  The  plan  of  the  former  is  a 
geometrical  diagram  by  Fermat ;  that  of  the  latter  a  cartoon  by 
Raphael.  The  Henriade^  as  we  see  it  completed,  is  a  polished, 
square-built  Tuileries  ;  Hatnlet  is  a  mysterious,  star-paved  Valhalla, 
and  dwelling  of  the  gods. 

Christianity,  the  "Worship  of  Sorrow,"  has  been  recognized  as 
divine,  on  far  other  grounds  than  "  Essays  on  Miracles,"  and  by 
considerations  infinitely  deeper  than  would  avail  in  any  mere  "  trial 


THOMAS   CARLYLE.  423 

by  jury."  He  who  argues  against  it  or  for  it,  in  this  manner,  may  be 
regarded  as  mistaking  its  nature :  the  Ithuriel,  though  to  our  eyes 
he  wears  a  body,  and  the  fashion  of  armor,  cannot  be  wounded  with 
material  steel.  Our  fathers  were  wiser  than  we,  when  they  said  in 
deepest  earnestness,  what  we  often  hear  in  shallow  mockery,  that 
Religion  is  "not  of  Sense,  but  of  Faith;"  not  of  Understanding, 
but  of  Reason.  He  who  finds  himself  without  this  latter,  who  by  all 
his  studying  has  failed  to  unfold  it  in  himself,  may  have  studied  to 
great  or  to  small  purpose,  we  say  not  which  ;  but  of  the  Christian 
Religion,  as  of  many  other  things,  he  has  and  can  have,  no  knowledge. 

The  Christian  Doctrine  we  often  hear  likened  to  the  Greek  Phi- 
losophy, and  found,  on  all  hands,  some  measurable  way  superior 
to  it ;  but  this  also  seems  a  mistake.  The  Christian  Doctrine, 
that  doctrine  of  Humility,  in  all  senses,  godHke,  and  the  parent  of 
all  godlike  virtues,  is  not  superior,  or  inferior,  or  equal,  to  any  doc- 
trine of  Socrates  or  Thales  ;  being  of  a  totally  different  nature  ;  differ- 
ing from  these,  as  a  perfect  ideal  poem  does  from  a  Correct  Compu- 
tation in  Arithmetic.  He  who  compares  it  with  such  standards  may 
lament  that,  beyond  the  mere  letter,  the  purport  of  this  divine  Humil- 
ity has  never  been  disclosed  to  him  ;  that  the  loftiest  feeling  hitherto 
vouchsafed  to  mankind  is  as  yet  hidden  from  his  eyes. 


[From  the  Hiitory  of  Frederick  the  Great.] 

About  fourscore  years  ago,  there  used  to  be  seen  sauntering  on 
the  terraces  of  Sans  Souci,  for  a  short  time  in  the  afternoon,  or  you 
might  have  met  him  elsewhere  at  an  earlier  hour,  riding  or  driving  in 
a  rapid  business  manner  on  the  open  roads  or  through  the  scraggy 
woods  and  avenues  of  that  intricate  amphibious  Potsdam  region,  a 
highly  interesting  lean  little  old  man,  of  alert,  though  slightly  stoop- 
ing figure  ;  whose  name  among  strangers  was  King  Friedrich  the 
Second^  or  Frederick  the  Great  of  Prussia,  and  at  home  among  the 
common  people,  who  much  loved  and  esteemed  him,  was  Vater  Fritz^ 
—  Father  Fred,  —  a  name  of  familiarity  which  had  not  bred  contempt 
in  that  instance.  He  is  a  King  every  inch  of  him,  though  without 
the  trappings  of  a  king.  Presents  himself  in  a  Spartan  simplicity 
of  vesture  :  no  crown  but  an  old  military  cocked-hat,  —  generally  old, 
or  trampled  and  kneaded  into  absolute  softness^  if  new  ;  —  no  sceptre 
but  one  like  Agamemnon's,  a  walking-stick  cut  from  the  woods,  which 
serves  also  as  a  riding-stick  (with  which  he  hit's  the  horse  "between 


424  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

the  ears,"  say  authors) ;  —  and  for  royal  robes,  a  mere  soldier's  blue 
coat  with  red  facings,  —  coat  likely  to  be  old,  and  sure  to  have  a  good 
deal  of  Spanish  snuff  on  the  breast  of  it ;  rest  of  the  apparel  dim,  unob- 
trusive in  color  or  cut,  ending  in  high  over-knee  military  boots,  which 
may  be  brushed  (and,  I  hope,  kept  soft  with  an  underhand  suspicion 
of  oil),  but  are  not  permitted  to  be  blackened  or  varnished  ;  Day  and 
Martin  with  their  soot-pots  forbidden  to  approach. 

The  man  is  not  of  godlike  physiognomy,  any  more  than  of  im- 
posing stature  or  costume  :  close-shut  mouth,  with  thin  lips,  prom- 
inent jaws  and  nose,  receding  brow,  by  no  means  of  Olympian  height ; 
head,  however,  is  of  long  form,  and  has  superlative  gray  eyes  in  it 
Not  what  is  called  a  beautiful  man  ;  nor  yet,  by  all  appearance,  what 
is  called  a  happy.  On  the  contrary,  the  face  bears  evidence  of  many 
sorrows,  as  they  are  termed,  of  much  hard  labor  done  in  this  world  ; 
and  seems  to  anticipate  nothing  but  more  still  coming.  Quiet  sto- 
icism, capable  enough  of  what  joy  there  were,  but  not  expecting  any 
worth  mention ;  great  unconscious,  and  some  conscious  pride,  well 
tempered  with  a  cheery  mockery  of  humor,  —  are  written  on  that  old 
face  ;  which  carries  its  chin  well  forward,  in  spite  of  the  slight  stoop 
about  the  neck ;  snuffy  nose  rather  flung  into  the  air,  under  its  old 
cocked-hat,  —  like  an  old  snuffy  lion  on  the  watch  ;  and  such  a  pair  of 
eyes  as  no  man  or  lion  or  lynx  of  that  Centurj^  bore  elsewhere, 
according  to  all  the  testimony  we  have.  "  Those  eyes,"  says  Mira- 
beau,  "  which,  at  the  bidding  of  his  great  soul,  fascinated  you  with 
seduction  or  with  terror "  {portaient,  an  gre  de  son  a7ne  htro'ique, 
la  seduction  ou  la  terreur).  Most  excellent  potent  brilliant  eyes, 
swift-darting  as  the  stars,  steadfast  as  the  sun ;  gray,  we  said,  of 
the  azure-gray  color  ;  large  enough,  not  of  glaring  size  ;  the  habitual 
expression  of  them  vigilance  and  penetrating  sense,  rapidity  resting 
on  depth.  Which  is  an  excellent  combination  ;  and  gives  us  the  no- 
tion of  a  lambent  outer  radiance  springing  from  some  great  inner 
sea  of  light  and  fire  in  the  man.  The  voice,  if  he  speak  to  you,  is 
of  similar  physiognomy  :  clear,  melodious  and  sonorous  ;  all  tones 
are  in  it,  from  that  of  ingenuous  inquiry,  graceful  sociality,  light-flow- 
ing banter  (rather  prickly  for  most  part),  up  to  definite  word  of  com- 
mand, up  to  desolating  word  of  rebuke  and  reprobation :  a  voice 
"the  clearest  and  most  agreeable  in  conversation  I  ever  heard," 
says  witty  Dr.  Moore.  "He  speaks  a  great  deal,"  continues  the 
Doctor ;  "  yet  those  who  hear  him,  regret  that  he  does  not  speak  a 
good  deal  more.  His  observations  are  always  lively,  very  often  just  ; 
and  few  men  possess  the  talent  of  repartee  in  greater  perfection." 


THOMAS   CARLYLE.  425 

A   DISTANT   VIEW   OF   THE  BOSTON   TEA-PARTY. 
[From  the  History  of  Frederick  the  Great.] 

Curious  to  remark,  while  Friedrich  is  writing  this  Letter,  "  Thurs- 
day^ December  i6,"  1773,  what  a  commotion  is  going  on,  far  over  seas, 
at  Boston,  New  England,  —  in  the  "  Old  South  Meeting-house " 
there :  in  regard  to  three  EngHsh  Tea-Ships  that  are  lying  embar- 
goed at  Griffin's  Wharf,  for  above  a  fortnight  past.  The  case  is  well 
known,  and  still  memorable  to  mankind.  British  Parhament,  after 
nine  years  of  the  saddest  haggling  and  baffling  to  and  fro,  under 
Constitutional  stress  of  weather,  and  such  east-winds  and  west-winds 
of  Parliamentary  eloquence  as  seldom  were,  has  made  up  its  mind. 
That  America  shall  pay  duty  on  these  Teas  before  infusing  them  : 
and  America,  Boston  more  especially,  is  tacitly  determined  that  it 
will  not ;  and,  to  avoid  mistakes,  these  Teas  shall  never  be  landed 
at  all.  Such  is  Boston's  private  intention,  more  or  less  fixed  ;  —  to 
say  nothing  of  the  Philadelphias,  Charlestons,  New  Yorks,  who  are 
watching  Boston,  and  will  follow  suite  of  it. 

"Sunday,  November .26th,  —  that  is,  nineteen  days  ago,  —  the  first 
of  these  Tea-Ships,  the  Dartmouth^  Captain  Hall,  —  moored  itself  in 
Griffin's  Wharf:  Owner  and  Consignee  is  a  broad-brimmed  Boston 
gentleman  called  Rotch,  more  attentive  to  the  profits  of  trade  than 
to  the  groans  of  Boston  :  —  but  already  on  that  Sunday,  much  more 
on  the  Monday  following,  there  had  a  meeting  of  Citizens  run  to- 
gether,—  (on  Monday  Faneuil  Hall  won't  hold  them,  and  they  ad- 
journ to  the  Old  South  Meeting-house,)  —  who  make  it  apparent  to 
Rotch  that  it  will  much  behoove  him,  for  the  sake  both  of  tea  and 
skin,  not  to  enter,  (or  officially  announce)  this  Ship  Dartinouth  at  the 
Custom  house  in  any  wise  ;  but  to  pledge  his  broad-brimmed  word, 
equivalent  to  his  oath,  that  she  shall  lie  dormant  there  in  Griffin's 
Wharf  till  we  see.  Which,  accordingly,  she  has  been  doing  ever 
since  ;  she  and  two  others  that  arrived  some  days  later :  dormant 
all  three  of  them,  side  by  side,  three  crews  totally  idle  ;  a  '  Committee 
of  Ten  '  supervising  Rotch's  procedures  ;  and  the  Boston  world  much 
expectant.  Thursday,  December  i6th  :  This  is  the  twentieth  day 
since  Rotch's  Dartmouth  arrived  here  ;  if  not  "  entered  "  at  Custom 
house  in  the  course  of  this  day,  Custom  house  cannot  give  her  a 
"  clearance  "  either  (a  leave  to  depart),  she  becomes  a  smuggler,  an 
outlaw,  and  her  fate  is  mysterious  to  Rotch  and  us. 

This  Thursday,  accordingly,  by  ten  in  the  morning,  in  the  Old 
South  Meeting-house,  Boston  is  assembled,  and  country-people  to 


426  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

the  number  of  two  thousand  ;  —  and  Rotch  never  in  such  a  company 
of  human  Friends  before.  They  are  not  uncivil  to  him  (cautious  peo- 
ple, heedful  of  the  verge  of  the  Law) ;  but  they  are  peremptory,  to  the 
extent  of —  Rotch  may  shudder  to  think  what.  "  I  went  to  the  Cus- 
tom house  yesterday,"  said  Rotch,  "your  Committee  of  Ten  can 
bear  me  witness  ;  and  demanded  clearance  and  leave  to  depart ; 
but  they  would  not ;  were  forbidden,  they  said  !  "  "  Go,  then,  sir  ; 
get  you  to  the  Governor  himself;  a  clearance,  and  out  of  harbor, 
this  day :  hadn't  you  better  ? "  Rotch  is  well  aware  that  he  had ; 
hastens  off  to  the  Governor  (who  has  vanished  to  his  country-house, 
on  purpose) ;  Old  South  Meeting-house  adjourning  till  three  P.  M.  for 
Rotch's  return  with  clearance. 

At  three  no  Rotch,  nor  at  four,  nor  at  five  ;  miscellaneous  plan- 
gent intermittent  speech  instead,  mostly  plangent,  in  tone  sorrowful 
rather  than  indignant :  —  at  a  quarter  to  six,  here  at  length  is  Rotch  ; 
sun  is  long  since  set,  — has  Rotch  a  clearance  or  not  ? 

Rotch  reports  at  large,  willing  to  be  questioned  and  cross-ques- 
tioned :  "  Governor  absolutely  would  not !  My  Christian  friends, 
what  could  I  or  can  I  do  1 "  There  are  by  this  time  about  seven 
thousand  people  in  Old  South  Meeting-house,  very  few  tallow-lights 
in  comparison,  —  almost  no  lights  for  the  mind  either,  —  and  it  is 
difficult  to  answer.  Rotch's  report  done,  the  Chairman  (one  Adams, 
"American  Cato,"  subsequently  so-called)  dissolves  the  sorrowful 
seven  thousand,  with  these  words  :  "  This  Meeting  declares  that  it 
can  do  nothing  more  to  save  the  Country."  Will  merely  go  home, 
then,  and  weep.  Hark,  however  :  almost  on  the  instant,  in  front  of 
Old  South  Meeting-house,  "a  terrific  war-whoop,  and  about  fifty 
Mohawk  Indians," — with  whom- Adams  seems  to  be  acquainted; 
and  speaks  without  Interpreter:  Aha! — And,  sure  enough,  before 
the  stroke  of  seven,  these  fifty  painted  Mohawks  are  forward,  with- 
out noise,  to  Griffin's  Wharf;  have  put  sentries  all  round  there  ;  and, 
in  a  great  silence  of  the  neighborhood,  are  busy,  in  three  gangs,  upon 
the  dormant  Tea-Ships,  opening  their  chests,  and  punctually  shak- 
ing them  out  into  the  sea.  "Listening  from  the  distance,  you  could 
hear  distinctly  the  ripping  open  of  the  chests,  and  no  other  sound." 
About  ten  P.  M.  all  was  finished ;  three  hundred  and  forty-two 
chests  of  tea  flung  out  to  infuse  in  the  Atlantic  ;  the  fifty  Mohawks 
gone  like  a  dream;  and  Boston  sleeping  more  silently  even  than 
usual." 


THOMAS   CARLYLE.  42/ 

[From  the  History  of  Frederick  the  Great] 

Friedrich  Wilhelm  has  not  the  least  shadow  of  a  Constitutional 
Parliament,  nor  even  'a  Privy- Council,  as  we  understand  it;  his 
ministers  being  in  general  mere  clerks  to  register  and  execute  what 
he  had  otherwise  resolved  upon  :  but  he  had  his  Tabaks-Collegium, 
Tobacco  College,  Smoking  Congress,  Tabagie,  which  has  made  so 
much  noise  in  the  world,  and  which,  in  a  rough  natural  way,  affords 
him  the  uses  of  a  Parliament,  on  most  cheap  terms,  and  without  the 
formidable  inconveniences  attached  to  that  kind  of  Institution.  A 
Parliament  reduced  to  its  simplest  expression,  and,  instead  of  Parlia- 
mentary eloquence,  provided  with  Dutch  clay-pipes  and  tobacco :  so 
we  may  define  this  celebrated  Tabagie  of  Friedrich  Wilhelm's. 

George  I.  had  his  Tabagie  ;  and  other  German  sovereigns  had  : 
but  none  of  them  turned  it  to  a  Political  Institution,  as  Friedrich 
Wilhelm  did.  The  thrifty  man;  finding  it  would  serve  in  that 
capacity  withal.  He  had  taken  it  up  as  a  commonplace  solace  and 
amusement  ;  it  is  a  reward  for  doing  strenuously  the  day's  heavy 
labors,  to  wind  them  up  in  this  manner,  in  quiet  society  of  friendly 
human  faces,  into  a  contemplative  smoke-canopy,  slowly  spreading 
into  the  realms  of  sleep  and  its  dreams.  Friedrich  Wilhelm  was  a 
man  of  habitudes  ;  his  evening  Tabagie  became  a  law  of  Nature  to 
him,  constant  as  the  setting  of  the  sun.  Favorable  circumstances, 
quietly  noticed  and  laid  hold  of  by  the  thrifty  man,  developed  this 
simple  evening  arrangement  of  his  into  a  sort  of  Smoking  Parlia- 
ment, small  but  powerful,  where  State-consultations,  in  a  fitful 
informal  way,  took  place  ;  and  the  weightiest  affairs  might,  by 
dexterous  management,  cunning  insinuation,  and  manoeuvring  from 
those  that  understood  the  art  and  the  place,  be  bent  this  way  or  that, 
and  ripened  towards  such  issue  as  was  desirable. 

''  Tobacco-smoke  is  the  one  element  in  which,  by  our  European 
manners,  men  can  sit  silent  together  without  embarrassment,  and 
where  no  man  is  bound  to  speak  one  word  more  than  he  has  actually 
and  veritably  got  to  say.  Nay,  rather  every  man  is  admonished  and 
enjoined  by  the  laws  of  honor,  and  even  of  personal  ease,  to  stop 
short  of  that  point ;  at  all  events,  to  hold  his  peace  and  take  to  his 
pipe  again,  the  instant  he  has  spoken  his  meaning,  if  he  chance  to 
have  any.  The  results  of  which  salutary  practice,  if  introduced  into 
Constitutional  Parliaments,  might  evidently  be  incalculable.  The 
essence  of  what  little  intellect  and  insight  there  is  in  that  room  :  we 


428  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

shall  or  can  get  nothing  more  out  of  any  Parliament ;  and  sedative, 
gently-soothing,  gently-clarifying  tobacco-smoke  (if  the  room  were 
well  ventilated,  open  atop,  and  the  air  kept  good),  with  the  obliga- 
tion to  a  niiniimun  of  speech,  surely  gives  human  intellect  and 
insight  the  best  chance  they  can  have.  Best  chance,  instead  of  the 
worst  chance,  as  at  present ;  ah  me,  ah  me,  who  will  reduce  fools 
to  silence  again  in  any  measure  ?  Who  will  deliver  men  from  this 
hideous  nightmare  of  Stump-Oratory,  under  which  the  grandest 
Nations  are  choking  to  a  nameless  death,  bleeding  (too  truly)  from 
mouth,  and  nose  and  ears,  in  our  sad  days  i  " 

This  Tobacco-College  is  the  Grumkow-and-Seckendorf  chief  field 
of  action.  These  two  gentlemen  understand  thoroughly  the  nature 
of  the  Prussian  Tobacco- Parliament ;  have  studied  the  conditions  of 
it  to  the  most  intricate  cranny :  no  English  Whipper-in  or  eloquent 
Premier  knows  his  St.  Stephen's  better,  or  how  to  hatch  a  measure 
in  that  dim,  hot  element.  By  hint,  by  innuendo  ;  by  contemplative 
smoke,  speech  and  forbearance  to  speak ;  often  looking  one  way  and 
rowing  another,  —  they  can  touch  the  secret  springs,  and  guide  in  a 
surprising  manner  the  big,  dangerous  Fireship  (for  such  every  State- 
Parliament  is)  towards  the  haven  they  intend  for  it.  Most  dexterous 
Parliament-men  (Smoke-Parliament) ;  no  Walpole,  no  Dundas,  or 
immortal  Pitt,  First  or  Second,  is  cleverer  in  parhamentary  practice. 
For  their  Fireship,  though  smaller  than  the  British,  is  very  danger- 
ous withal.  Look  at  this,  for  instance :  Seckendorf,  one  evening, 
far  contrary  to  his  wont,  which  was  prostrate  respect  in  easy  forms, 
and  always  judicious  submission  of  one's  own  weaker  judgment, 
towards  his  Majesty,  —  has  got  into  some  difficult  defence  of  the 
Kaiser  ;  defence  very  difficult,  or  in  reality  impossible.  The  cautious 
man  is  flustered  by  the  intricacies  of  his  position,  by  his  Majesty's 
indignant  counter- volleys,  and  the  perilous  necessity  there  is  to  do  the 
impossible  on  the  spur  of  the  instant :  gets  into  emphasis,  answers 
his  Majesty's  volcanic  fire  by  incipient  heat  of  his  own  ;  and,  in 
short,  -  seems  in  danger  of  forgetting  himself,  and  kindling  the 
Tobacco- Parliament  into  a  mere  conflagration.  That  will  be  an 
issue  for  us  !  And  yet  who  dare  interfere  ?  Friedrich  Wilhelm's 
words,  in  high  clangorous  metallic  plangency,  and  the  pathos  of  a 
lion  raised  by  anger  into  song,  fall  hotter  and  hotter  ;  Seckendorf 's 
puckered  brow  is  growing  of  slate  color;  his  shelf-lip,  shuttling 
violently,  lisps  and  snuffles  mere  unconciliatory  matter  :  —  What  on 
earth  will  become  of  us  ?  —  "  Hoom  !  Boom  !  "  dexterous  Grumkow 
has  drawn  a  Humming-top  from  his  pocket,  and  suddenly  sent  it 


THOMAS    HOOD.  429 

spinning.  There  it  hums  and  caracoles,  through  the  bottles  and 
glasses  ;  reckless  what  dangerous  breakage  and  spilth  it  may  occa- 
sion. Friedrich  Wilhelm  looked  aside  to  it  indignantly.  "  What  is 
that.^"  inquired  he,  in  metallic  tone  still  high.  "Pooh,  a  toy  I 
bought  for  the  little  Prince  August,  your  Majesty :  am  only  trying 
it !  "  His  majesty  understood  the  hint,  Seckendorf  still  better  ;  and 
a  jolly  touch  of  laughter,  on  both  sides,  brought  the  matter  back  into 
the  safe  tobacco-clouds  again. 


THOMAS    HOOD. 

Thomas  Hood  was  bom  in  London  in  1798.  He  did  not  enjoy  the  advantages  of  any 
regular  education,  and  was  placed  at  an  early  age  as  an  apprentice  to  an  engraver.  But  he 
had  written  for  the  press  while  on  a  visit  to  relatives  in  Dundee,  and  during  his  apprentice- 
ship he  was  quite  as  much  devoted  to  verse  as  to  art.  He  was  at  length  engaged  as  editor 
of  the  London  Magazine  (after  the  death  of  John  Scott,  who  was  killed  in  a  duel),  and 
from  that  time  his  literary  career  commenced.  His  principal  poems  are  probably  more 
widely  known  and  more  thoroughly  appreciated  than  those  of  any  modern  author.  While 
in  the  casa  of  many  compositions  the  reader  has  to  make  an  effort  to  comprehend  their 
meaning,  so  far  they  are  removed  from  every-day  life  and  ordinary  human  interest,  it  is  the 
strong  peculiarity  of  Hood's  poems  that  they  address  themselves  to  all  that  is  most  vital  in 
our  nature,  so  that  we  cannot,  if  we  would,  neglect  or  escape  their  noble  lesson.  Who  that 
ever  read  The  Song  of  the  Shirt,  or  One  more  Unfortunate,  ever  forgot  the  ideas  they  were 
intended  to  enforce  ?  In  like  manner  his  other  serious  poems  are  written  for  "all  sorts  and 
conditions  of  men, "  and  are  as  strong  in  their  humanity  as  they  are  sincere  in  their  piety. 
The  influence  of  Hood's  poems  is  not  bounded  by  his  own  country,  nor  does  it  end  with 
his  own  time.  Wherever  they  are  read  the  laborer's  step  is  lighter,  and  the  heart  of  the 
poor  more  buoyant.  Other  poets  may  have  risen  nearer  to  the  untracked  heavens  in  their 
flights,  or  woven  the  gold  threads  of  learning  more  cunningly  in  the  web  of  their  fancy,  but 
it  was  for  Hood  to  touch  the  universal  heart  of  man  by  his  simple,  natural,  and  sympathetic 
verse. 

The  youthful  reader  will  be  attracted  first  by  Hood's  multitudinous  puns  ;  many  persons 
never  attain  to  a  higher  conception  of  his  genius  ;  but  in  time  we  all  come  to  know  that 
his  liveliness  was  the  least  of  his  merits,  and  that  under  all  his  playful  badinage  there  is  to 
be  discerned  the  prompting  of  a  heart  as  true,  as  tender,  and  all-embracing  as  ever  throbbed 
in  the  breast  of  man.  Hood  died  in  1845,  leaving  a  widow  with  two  children.  It  is  almost 
needless  to  add  that  he  died  poor. 

THE   SONG  OF  THE  SHIRT. 

With  fingers  weary  and  worn,  "Work  !  work  !  work  ! 

With  eyelids  heavy  and  red.  While  the  Qock  is  crowing  aloof  I 

A  woman  sat  in  unwomanly  rags,  And  work  — work  —  work, 

Plying  her  needle  and  thread  —  Till  the  stars  shine  through  the  roof  1 

Stitch  !  stitch  !  stitch  !  It's  O  !  to  be  a  slave 

In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt.  Along  with  the  barbarous  Turk, 

And  still  with  a  voice  of  dolorous  pitch  Where  woman  has  never  a  soul  to  save, 

She  sang  the  "  Song  of  the  Shirt  I  "  If  this  is  Christian  work  I 


430 


HAND-BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  J.ITERATURE. 


' '  Work  —  work  —  work 

Till  the  brain  begins  to  swim  I 

Work  —  work  —  work 

Till  the  eyes  are  heavy  and  dim  I 

Seam,  and  gusset,  and  band. 

Band,  and  gusset,  and  seam. 

Till  over  the  buttons  I  fall  asleep, 

And  sew  them  on  in  a  dream. 

"  O,  men,  with  sisters  dear  ! 

O,  men,  with  mothers  and  wives  1 

It  is  not  linen  you're  wearing  out, 

But  human  creatures'  lives  1 

Stitch  —  stitch  —  stitch. 

In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt. 

Sewing  at  once,  with  a  double  thread, 

A  shroud  as  well  as  a  shirt. 

"  But  why  do  I  talk  of  death  ? 

That  phantom  of  grisly  bone, 

I  hardly  fear  his  terrible  shape. 

It  seems  so  like  my  own  — 

It  seems  so  like  my  own, 

Because  of  the  fasts  I  keep  ; 

O,  God  I  that  bread  should  be  so  dear, 

And  flesh  and  blood  so  cheap  ! 

' '  Work  —  work  —  work  ! 

My  labor  never  flags  ; 

And  what  are  its  wages?    A  bed  of  straw, 

A  crust  of  bread  —  and  rags. 

That  shattered  roof—  and  this  naked  floor - 

A  table  —  a  broken  chair  — 

And  a  wall  so  blank,  my  shadow  I  thank 

For  sometimes  falling  there  ! 

' '  Work  —  work  —  work  I 
From  weary  chime  to  chime, 
Work  —  work  —  work. 
As  prisoners  work  for  crime  ! 
Band,  and  gusset,  and  seam. 


Seam,  and  gusset,  and  band. 
Till  the  heart  is  sick,  and  the  brain  be- 
numbed. 
As  well  as  the  weary  hand. 

"Work  —  work  —  work. 

In  the  dull  December  light. 

And  work  —  work  —  work. 

When  the  weather  is  warm  and  bright  — 

While  underneath  the  eaves 

The  brooding  swallows  cling, 

As  if  to  show  me  their  sunny  backs, 

And  twit  me  with  the  spring. 

"  O  !  but  to  breathe  the  breath 
Of  the  cowslip  and  primrose  sweet  — 
With  the  sky  above  my  head. 
And  the  grass  beneath  my  feet, 
For  only  one  short  hour 
To  feel  as  I  used  to  feel. 
Before  I  knew  the  woes  of  want, 
And  the  walk  that  costs  a  meal ! 

"  O  !  but  for  one  short  hour  ! 

A  respite  however  brief ! 

No  blessed  leisure  for  love  or  hope. 

But  only  time  for  grief! 

A  little  weeping  would  ease  my  heart. 

But  in  their  briny  bed 

My  tears  must  stop,  for  every  drop 

Hinders  needle  and  thread  !  " 

With  fingers  weary  and  worn. 

With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 

A  woman  sat  in  unwomanly  rags, 

Plying  her  needle  and  thread  — 

Stitch  !  stitch  !  stitch  ! 

In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt, 

And  still  with  a  voice  of  dolorous  pitch,  — 

Would  that  its  tone  could  reach  the  rich  I  - 

She  sang  this  "  Song  of  the  Shirt." 


I   REMEMBER,   I  REMEMBER. 


I  REMEMBER,  I  remember 
The  house  where  I  was  bom. 
The  little  window  where  the  sun 
Came  peeping  in  at  morn ; 
He  never  came  a  wink  too  soon, 
Nor  brought  too  long  a  day. 
But  now  I  often  wish  the  night 
Had  borne  my  breath  away  I 


I  remember,  I  remember 
The  roses  red  and  white, 
The  violets,  and  the  lily-cups. 
Those  flowers  made  of  light ! 
The  lilacs  where  the  robin  built. 
And  where  my  brother  set 
The  laburnum  on  his  birthday,  - 
The  tree  is  living  yet  1 


THOMAS   HOOD. 


4.31 


I  remember,  I  remember 

Where  I  was  used  to  swing, 

And  thought  the  air  must  rush  as  fresh 

To  swallows  on  the  wing  ; 

My  spirit  flew  in  feathers  then, 

That  is  so  heavy  now, 

And  summer  pools  could  hardly  cool 

The  fever  on  my  brow  ! 


I  remember,  I  remember 

The  fir  trees  dark  and  high  ; 

I  used  to  think  their  slender  tops 

Were  close  against  the  sky  : 

It  was  a  childish  ignorance. 

But  now  'tis  little  joy 

To  know  I'm  farther  off  from  heaven 

Than  when  I  was  a  boy. 


THE   DEATH-BED. 


We  watched  her  breathing  through  the  night. 

Her  breathing  soft  and  low, 
As  in  her  breast  the  wave  of  life 

Kept  heaving  to  and  fro. 


Our  very  hopes  belied  our  fears, 
Our  fears  our  hopes  belied  — 

We  thought  her  dying  when  she  slept, 
And  sleeping  when  she  died. 


So  silently  we  seemed  to  speak, 

So  slowly  moved  about, 
As  we  had  lent  her  half  our  powers 

To  eke  her  living  out. 


For  when  the  mom  came  dim  and  sad. 
And  chill  with  early  showers, 

Her  quiet  eyelids  closed  —  she  had 
Another  mom  than  ours. 


FAITHLESS  NELLY   GRAY. 


Ben  Battle  was  a  soldier  bold, 
And  used  to  war's  alarms  ; 

But  a  cannon-ball  took  off  his  legs, 
So  he  laid  down  his  arms  ! 


Said  she,  "  I  loved  a  soldier  once, 
For  he  was  blithe  and  brave  ; 

But  I  will  never  have  a  man 
With  both  legs  in  the  grave  ! 


Now,  as  they  bore  him  off  the  field, 
Said  he,  "  Let  others  shoot. 

For  here  I  leave  my  second  leg. 
And  the  Forty-Second  Foot !  " 


"  Before  you  had  those  timber  toes, 

Your  love  I  did  allow, 
But  then,  you  know,  you  stand  upon 

Another  footing  now  !  " 


The  army-surgeons  made  him  limbs  : 
Said  he,  "They're  only  pegs: 

But  there's  as  wooden  members  quite 
As  represent  my  legs  !  " 


"  O,  Nelly  Gray  !  O,  Nelly  Gray  ! 

For  all  your  jeering  speeches. 
At  duty's  call  I  left  my  legs. 

In  Badajos's  breaches .'" 


Now,  Ben  he  loved  a  pretty  maid. 
Her  name  was  Nelly  Gray  ; 

So  he  went  to  pay  her  his  devours, 
When  he  devoured  his  pay  ! 


"Why  then,"  said  she,  "you've  lost  the  feet 

Of  legs  in  war's  alarms, 
And  now  you  cannot  wear  your  shoes 

Upon  your  feats  of  arms  !  " 


But  when  he  called  on  Nelly  Gray, 
She  made  him  quite  a  scoff ; 

And  when  she  saw  his  wooden  legs, 
Began  to  take  tham  off ! 


"  O,  false  and  fickle  Nelly  Gray  ! 

I  know  why  you  refuse  :  — 
Though  I've  no  feet  —  some  other  man 

Is  standing  in  my  shoes  ! 


"O,  Nelly  Gray  !  O,  Nel'y  Gray  ! 

Is  this  your  love  so  warm  ? 
The  love  that  loves  a  scarlet  coat 

Should  be  more  uniform  ! " 


"  I  wish  I  ne'er  had  seen  your  face  ; 

But,  now,  a  long  farewell  ! 
For  you  will  be  my  deatli ;  alas 

You  will  not  be  my  Nell  1^* 


432                         HAND-BOOK   OF  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

Now,  when  he  went  from  Nelly  Gray,  And,  as  his  legs  were  oflE;  —  of  course, 

His  heart  so  heavy  got.  He  soon  was  off  his  legs  ! 
And  life  was  such  a  burthen  grown, 

It  made  him  take  a  knot !  And  there  he  hung  till  he  was  dead 

As  any  nail  in  town,  — 

So  round  his  melancholy  neck  For,  though  distress  had  cut  him  up, 

A  rope  he  did  entwine,  It  could  not  cut  him  down  ! 
And,  for  his  second  time  in  life, 

Enlisted  in  the  Line  !  A  dozen  men  sat  on  his  corpse. 

To  find  out  why  he  died  — 

One  end  he  tied  around  a  beam.  And  they  buried  Ben  in  four  cross-roads, 

And  then  removed  his  pegs,  With  a  stake  in  his  inside. 


MORNING  MEDITATIONS. 

Let  Taylor  preach,  upon  a  morning  breezy, 
How  well  to  rise  while  nights  and  larks  are  flying- 
For  my  part,  getting  up  seems  not  so  easy 
By  half  as  lying. 

What  if  the  lark  does  carol  in  the  sky. 
Soaring  beyond  the  sight  to  find  him  out  — 
Wherefore  am  I  to  rise  at  such  a  fly  t 
I'm  not  a  trout. 

Talk  not  to  me  of  bees  and  such  hke  hums. 
The  smell  of  sweet  herbs  at  the  morning  prime  — 
Only  lie  long  enough,  and  bed  becomes 
A  bed  of  time. 

To  me  Dan  Phcebus  and  his  car  are  nought, 
His  steeds,  that  paw  impatiently  about,  — 
Let  them  enjoy,  say  I,  as  horses  ought, 
The  first  turn-out ! 

Right  beautiful  the  dewy  meads  appear 
Besprinkled  by  the  rosy-fingered  girl ; 
What  then,  —  if  I  prefer  my  pillow-beer 
To  early  pearl  ? 

My  stomach  is  not  ruled  by  other  men's, 
And,  grumbhng  for  a  reason,  quaintly  begs 
Wherefore  should  master  rise  before  the  hens 
Have  laid  their  eggs  ? 


LORD   MACAULAY.  433 

Why  from  a  comfortable  pillow  start 
To  see  faint  flushes  in  the  east  awaken  ? 
A  fig,  say  I,  for  any  streaky  part, 
Excepting  bacon. 

An  early  riser  Mr.  Gray  has  drawn, 
Who  used  to  haste  the  dewy  grass  among, 
"  To  meet  the  sun  upon  the  upland  lawn  :  " 
Well,  —  he  died  young. 

With  charwomen  such  early  hours  agree. 
And  sweeps  that  earn  betimes  their  bit  and  sup  ; 
But  I'm  no  climbing  boy,  and  need  not  be 
All  up,  all  up. 

So  here  I  lie,  my  morning  calls  deferring 
Till  something  nearer  to  the  stroke  of  noon. 
A  man  that's  fond  precociously  of  stirring 
Must  be  a  spoon. 


LORD   MACAULAY. 

Thomas  Babington  Macaulay  was  born  in  i8oo,  and  was  educated  at  Cambridge,  where 
he  had  a  very  high  reputation  as  a  classical  scholar.  He  was  called  to  the  bar  in  1825,  but 
before  that  time  had  written  The  Battle  of  Ivry,  the  glowing  essay  on  Milton,  and  other 
brilliant  papers.  He  early  obtained  official  employment,  and  in  1830  became  a  member  of 
Parliament.  His  enthusiastic  support  was  given  to  the  Whig  party,  which  in  return  re- 
warded him  with  honor  and  high  place.  In  1834  he  went  to  India  as  a  member  of  the  Coun- 
cil, and  there  framed  a  civil  code  intended  to  secure  to  the  natives  their  rights  in  the  courts. 
It  was  in  India,  on  the  spot,  that  the  facts  were  gathered  which  he  has  so  ably  and  pictu- 
resquely used  in  the  essays  on  Clive,  and  on  Warren  Hastings.  The  Lays  of  Ancient 
Rome  appeared  in  1842,  and  added  greatly  to  his  reputation  as  a  scholar. 

The  work  for  which  all  his  previous  efforts  were  only  so  many  separate  studies,  and  that 
upon  which  his  fame  as  an  author  securely  rests,  is  his  History  of  England.  Two  volumes 
were  published  in  1848,  and  were  read  with  eager  delight  by  all  classes.  No  successfiil 
novel  or  poem  was  ever  received  with  such  universal  acclamations.  Enormous  editions  were 
sold  in  America  as  well  as  in  England ;  and  the  author's  name  was  as  familiar  in  the  log- 
house  of  the  western  pioneer  as  in  Westminster  Hall.  For  the  first  time  the  reading  world 
had  seen  a  learned  and  able  history  made  more  fascinating  than  any  fiction  by  ths  splendor 
of  its  style,  by  the  art  of  dramatic  arrangement,  and  by  its  delightful  pictures  of  society  and 
manners.  Exceptions  have  been  taken  to  some  of  the  author's  positions  and  theories  ;  but 
discussion  has  only  increased  the  number  of  his  readers,  if  that  were  possible.  Two  more 
volumes  appeared  in  1855  ;  another  was  published  after  his  death  in  1859.  But  a  smill  part 
of  the  projected  work  was  finished. 

He  was  elected  to  Parliament  again  in  1852,  and  in  1857  was  raised  to  the  peerage  under 
the  title  of  Baron  Macaulay.  His  Essays  were  mostly  written  for  the  Edinburgh  Review, 
and  are  among  the  most  splendid  contributions  to  our  periodical  literature.  They  cover  a 
wide  range  of  topics  ;  they  are  inviting  in  style,  and  frequently  eloquent ;  they  are  full  of 
illustration  and  anecdote,  and  exhibit  the  fruits  of  extensive  reading.  No  volume  is  better 
28 


434  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

fitted  to  be  used  as  an  introduction  to  the  treasures  of  literature  than  these  Essays.     They 
are  earnestly  commended  to  the  student. 

Macaulay  was  distinguished  for  his  brilliant  talent  in  conversation,  and  was  fond  of  talk- 
ing. He  was  never  married.  He  was  known  to  be  benevolent  during  his  life,  but  the  ex- 
tent of  h!s  charities  was  not  knowo  until  after  his  death,  when  his  papers  showed  that  for 
many  years  more  than  a  fourth  part  of  his  income  had  been  given  away. 

SOCIETY   AND   MANNERS   IN   THE   TIME   OF   CHARLES   THE   SECOND. 

[From  Macaulay's  History  of  England.] 

We  should  be  much  mistaken  if  we  pictured  to  ourselves  the 
squires  of  the  seventeenth  century  as  men  bearing  a  close  resem- 
blance to  their  descendants,  the  county  members  and  chairmen  of 
quarter  sessions  with  whom  we  are  familiar.  The  modern  country 
gentleman  generally  receives  a  liberal  education,  passes  from  a  dis- 
tinguished school  to  a  distinguished  college,  and  has  every  opportu- 
nity to  become  an  excellent  scholar.  He  has  generally  seen  some- 
thing of  foreign  countries.  A  considerable  part  of  his  life  has 
generally  been  passed  in  the  capital ;  and  the  refinements  of  the 
capital  follow  him  into  the  country.  There  is,  perhaps,  no  class  of 
dwellings  so  pleasing  as  the  rural  seats  of  the  English  gentry.  In 
the  parks  and  pleasure-grounds,  Nature,  dressed,  yet  not  disguised  by 
art,  wears  her  most  alluring  form.  In  the  buildings,  good  sense  and 
good  taste  combine  to  produce  a  happy  union  of  the  comfortable  and 
the  graceful.  The  pictures,  the  musical  instruments,  the  library',  would 
in  any  other  country  be  considered  as  proving  the  owner  to  be  an  emi- 
nently polished  and  accomplished  man.  A  country  gentleman  who 
witnessed  the  Revolution  was  probably  in  receipt  of  about  a  fourth 
part  of  the  rent  which  his  acres  now  yield  to  his  posterity.  He  was, 
therefore,  as  compared  with  his  posterity,  a  poor  man,  and  was  general- 
ly under  the  necessity  of  residing,  with  little  interruption,  on  his  estate. 
To  travel  on  the  Continent,  to  maintain  an  establishment  in  London, 
or  even  to  visit  London  frequently,  were  pleasures  in  which  only  the 
great  proprietors  could  indulge.  It  may  be  confidently  affirmed,  that 
of  the  squires  whose  names  were  in  King  Charles's  commissions  of 
peace  and  lieutenancy,  not  one  in  twenty  went  to  town  once  in  five 
years,  or  had  ever  in  his  life  wandered  so  far  as  Paris.  Many  lords  of 
manors  had  received  an  education  differing  little  from  that  of  their 
menial  servants.  The  heir  of  an  estate  often  passed  his  boyhood  and 
youth  at  the  seat  of  his  family,  with' no  better  tutors  than  grooms  and 
gamekeepers,  and  scarce  attained  learning  enough  to  sign  his  name  to 
a  mittimus.  If  he  went  to  school  and  to  college,  he  generally  returned 
before  he  was  twenty  to  the  seclusion  of  the  old  hall,  and  there,  un- 


LORD   MACAULAY.  435 

less  his  mmd  was  very  happily  constituted  by  nature,  soon  forgot 
his  academical  pursuits  in  rural  business  and  pleasures.  His  chief 
serious  employment  was  the  care  of  his  property.  He  examined 
samples  of  grain,  handled  pigs,  and  on  market-days  made  bargains 
over  a  tankard  with  drovers  and  hop-merchants.  His  chief  pleas- 
ures were  commonly  derived  from  field-sports  and  from  an  unrefined 
sensuality.  His  language  and  pronunciation  were  such  as  we  should 
now  expect  to  hear  only  from  the  most  ignorant  clowns.  His  oaths, 
coarse  jests,  and  scurrilous  terms  of  abuse  were  uttered  with  the 
broadest  accent  of  his  province.  It  was  easy  to  discern,  from  the 
first  words  which  he  spoke,  whether  he  came  from  Somersetshire  or 
Yorkshire.  He  troubled  himself  little  about  decorating  his  abode, 
and,  if  he  attempted  decoration,  seldom  produced  anything  but  de- 
formity. The  litter  of  a  farm-yard  gathered  under  the  windows  of 
his  bed-chamber,  and  the  cabbages  and  gooseberry  bushes  grew 
close  to  his  hall  door.  His  table  was  loaded  with  coarse  plenty,  and 
guests  were  cordially  welcomed  to  it ;  but,  as  the  habit  of  drinking 
to  excess  was  general  in  the  class  to  which  he  belonged,  and  as  his 
fortune  did  not  enable  him  to  intoxicate  large  assemblies  daily  with 
claret  or  canary,  strong  beer  was  the  ordinary  beverage.  The  quan- 
tity of  beer  consumed  in  those  days  was  indeed  enormous  ;  for  beer 
then  was  to  the  middle  and  lower  classes  not  only  all  that  beer  now 
is,  but  all  that  wine,  tea,  and  ardent  spirits  now  are.  It  was  only  at 
great  houses  or  on  great  occasions  that  foreign  drink  was  placed  on  the 
board.  The  ladies  of  the  house,  whose  business  it  had  commonly  been 
to  cook  the  repast,  retired  as  soon  as  the  dishes  had  been  devoured, 
and  left  the  gentlemen  to  their  ale  and  tobacco.  The  coarse  jollity 
of  the  afternoon  was  often  prolonged  till  the  revellers  were  laid  under 
tlie  table. 

It  was  very  seldom  that  the  country  gentleman  caught  glimpses 
of  the  great  world,  and  what  he  saw  of  it  tended  rather  to  con- 
fuse than  to  enlighten  his  understanding.  His  opinions  respecting 
religion,  government,  foreign  countries,  and  former  times,  having 
been  derived,  not  from  study,  from  observation,  or  from  conversation 
with  enlightened  companions,  but  from  such  traditions  as  were  cur- 
rent in  his  own  small  circle,  were  the  opinions  of  a  child.  He  ad- 
hered to  them,  however,  with  the  obstinacy  which  is  generally  found 
in  ignorant  men  accustomed  to  be  fed  with  flattery.  His  animosities 
were  numerous  and  bitter.  He  hated  Frenchmen  and  Italians, 
Scotchmen  and  Irishmen,  Papists  and  Presbyterians,  Independents 
and  Baptists,  Quakers  and  Jews.     Towards  London  and  Londonera 


436  RAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

he  felt  an  aversion  which  more  than  once  produced  important  polit- 
ical effects.  His  wife  and  daughter  were  in  tastes  and  acquirements 
below  a  housekeeper  or  a  still-room  maid  of  the  present  day.  They 
switched  and  spun,  brewed  gooseberry  wine,  cured  marigolds,  and 
made  the  crust  for  the  venison  pasty. 

The  clergy  were  regarded  as,  on  the  whole,  a  plebeian  class  ;  and, 
indeed,  for  one  who  made  the  figure  of  a  gentleman,  ten  were  mere 
menial  servants.  A  large  proportion  of  those  divines  who  had  no 
benefices,  or  whose  benefices  were  too  small  to  afford  a  comfortable 
revenue,  lived  in  the  houses  of  laymen.  It  had  long  been  evident  that 
this  practice  tended  to  degrade  the  priestly  character.  Laud  had  ex- 
erted himself  to  effect  a  change  ;  and  Charles  the  First  had  repeatedly 
issued  positive  orders  that  none  but  men  of  high  rank  should  presume 
to  keep  domestic  chaplains.  But  these  injunctions  had  become  obso- 
lete. Indeed,  during  the  domination  of  the  Puritans,  many  of  the 
ejected  ministers  of  the  Church  of  England  could  obtain  bread  and 
shelter  only  by  attaching  themselves  to  the  households  of  Royalist 
gentlemen  ;  and  the  habits  which  had  been  formed  in  those  times  of 
trouble  continued  long  after  the  re-establishment  of  monarchy  and 
episcopacy.  In  the  mansions  of  men  of  liberal  sentiments  and  culti- 
vated understandings,  the  chaplain  was  doubtless  treated  with  urbanity 
and  kindness.  His  conversation,  his  literary  assistance,  his  spiritual 
advice,  were  considered  as  an  ample  return  for  his  food,  his  lodging, 
and  his  stipend.  But  this  was  not  the  general  feeling  of  the  country 
gentlemen.  The  coarse  and  ignorant  squire,  who  thought  that  it 
belonged  to  his  dignity  to  have  grace  said  every  day  at  his  table  by 
an  ecclesiastic  in  full  canonicals,  found  means  to  reconcile  dignity 
with  economy.  A  young  Levite  —  such  was  the  phrase  then  in  use 
—  might  be  had  for  his  board,  a  small  garret,  and  ten  pounds  a  year, 
and  might  not  only  perform  his  own  professional  functions,  might 
not  only  be  the  most  patient  of  butts  and  of  listeners,  might  not 
only  be  always  ready  in  fine  weather  for  bowls,  and  in  rainy  weather 
for  shovel-board,  but  might  also  save  the  expense  of  a  gardener  or 
of  a  groom.  Sometimes  the  reverend  man  nailed  up  the  apricots, 
and  sometimes  he  curried  the  coach-horses.  He  cast  up  the  farrier's 
bills.  He  walked  ten  miles  with  a  message  or  a  parcel.  If  he  was 
permitted  to  dine  with  the  family,  he  was  expected  to  content  him- 
self with  the  plainest  fare.  He  might  fill  himself  with  the  corned 
beef  and  the  carrots  ;  but,  as  soon  as  the  tarts  and  cheese-cakes 
made  their  appearance,  he  quitted  his  seat,  and  stood  aloof  till  he 


LORD   MACAULAY.  437 

was  summoned  to  return  thanks  for  the  repast,  from  a  great  part  of 
which  he  had  been  excluded. 

In  general,  the  divine  who  quitted  his  chaplainship  for  a  benefice 
and  a  wife  found  that  he  had  only  exchanged  one  class  of  vexations 
for  another.  Not  one  living  in  fifty  enabled  the  incumbent  to  bring 
up  a  family  comfortably.  As  children  multiplied  and  grew,  the 
household  of  the  priest  became  more  and  more  beggarly.  Holes 
appeared  more  and  more  plainly  in  the  thatch  of  his  parsonage  and 
in  his  single  cassock.  Often  it  was  only  by  toiling  on  his  glebe,  by 
feeding  swine,  and  by  loading  dung-carts,  that  he  could  obtain  daily 
bread  ;  nor  did  his  utmost  exertions  always  prevent  the  bailiffs  from 
taking  his  concordance  and  his  inkstand  in  execution.  It  was  a 
white  day  on  which  he  was  admitted  into  the  kitchen  of  a  great 
house,  and  regaled  by  the  servants  with  cold  meat  and  ale.  His 
children  were  brought  up  like  the  children  of  the  neighboring  peas- 
antry. His  boys  followed  the  plough,  and  his  girls  went  out  to  ser- 
vice. Study  he  found  impossible,  for  the  advowson  of  his  living 
would  hardly  have  sold  for  a  sum  sufficiv^nt  to  purchase  a  good  theo- 
logical library ;  and  he  might  be  considered  as  unusually  lucky  if 
he  had  ten  or  twelve  dog-eared  volumes  among  the  pots  and  pans 
on  his  shelves.  Even  a  keen  and  strong  intellect  might  be  expected 
to  rust  in  so  unfavorable  a  situation. 

The  coffee-house  must  not  be  dismissed  with  a  cursory  mention. 
It  might  indeed,  at  that  time,  have  been  not  improperly  called  a 
most  important  political  institution.  No  Parhament  had  sat  for 
years.  The  municipal  council  of  the  city  had  ceased  to  speak  the 
sense  of  the  citizens.  Pubhc  meetings,  harangues,  resolutions,  and 
the  rest  of  the  modern  machinery  of  agitation  had  not  yet  come  into 
fashion.  Nothing  resembling  the  modern  newspaper  existed.  In 
such  circumstances,  the  coffee-houses  were  the  chief  organs  through 
which  the  pubhc  opinion  of  the  metropolis  vented  itself. 

The  first  of  these  establishments  had  been  set  up,  in  the  time  of 
the  Commonwealth,  by  a  Turkey  merchant,  who  had  acquired  among 
the  Mohammedans  a  taste  for  their  favorite  beverage.  The  conven- 
ience of  being  able  to  make  appointments  in  any  part  of  the  town, 
and  of  being  able  to  pass  evenings  socially  at  a  very  small  charge, 
was  so  great  that  the  fashion  spread  fast.  Every  man  of  the  upper 
or  middle  class  went  daily  to  his  coffee-house  to  learn  the  news 
and  to  discuss  it.  Every  coffee-house  had  one  or  more  orators  to 
whose  eloquence  the  crowd  listened  with  admiration,  and  who  soon 


438  HAND-300K  OF  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

became,  what  the  journalists  of  our  own  time  have  been  called,  a 
fourth  estate  of  the  realm.  The  court  had  long  seen  with  uneasi- 
ness the  growth  of  this  new  power  in  the  state.  An  attempt  had 
been  made,  during  Danby's  administration,  to  close  the  coffee- 
houses ;  but  men  of  all  parties  missed  their  usual  places  of  resort 
so  much  that  there  was  a  universal  outcry.  The  government  did 
not  venture,  in  opposition  to  a  feeling  so  strong  and  general,  to  en- 
force a  regulation  of  which  the  legality  might  well  be  questioned. 
Since  that  time  ten  years  had  elapsed,  and  during  those  years  the 
number  and  influence  of  the  coffee-houses  had  been  constantly  in- 
creasing. Foreigners  remarked  that  the  coffee-house  was  that  which 
especially  distinguished  London  from  all  other  cities  ;  that  the  coffee- 
house was  the  Londoner's  home,  and  that  those  who  wished  to  find 
a  gentleman,  commonly  asked,  not  whether  he  hved  in  Fleet  Street 
or  Chancery  Lane,  but  whether  he  frequented  the  Grecian  or  the 
Rainbow.  Nobody  was  excluded  from  these  places  who  laid  down 
his  penny  at  the  bar ;  yet  every  rank  and  profession,  and  every 
shade  of  religious  and  political  opinion,  had  its  own  headquarters. 
There  were  houses  near  St.  James's  Park  where  fops  congregated, 
their  heads  and  shoulders  covered  with  black  or  flaxen  wigs,  not  less 
ample  than  those  which  are  now  worn  by  the  Chancellor  and  by  the 
Speaker  of  the  House  of  Commons.  The  wig  came  from  Paris  ; 
and  so  did  the  rest  of  the  fine  gentleman's  ornaments,  his  em- 
broidered coat,  his  fringed  gloves,  and  the  tassel  which  upheld  his 
pantaloons.  The  conversation  was  in  that  dialect  which,  long  after 
it  had  ceased  to  be  spoken  in  fashionable  circles,  continued,  in  the 
mouth  of  Lord  Foppington,  to  excite  the  mirth  of  theatres.  The 
atmosphere  was  like  that  of  a  perfumer's  shop.  Tobacco  in  any 
other  form  than  that  of  richly-scented  snuff  was  held  in  abomina- 
tion. If  any  clown,  ignorant  of  the  usages  of  the  house,  called 
for  a  pipe,  the  sneers  of  the  whole  assembly  and  the  short  answers 
of  the  waiters  soon  convinced  him  that  he  had  better  go  some- 
where else  ;  nor,  indeed,  would  he  have  had  far  to  go  ;  for,  in 
general,  the  coffee-rooms  reeked  with  tobacco  like  a  guard-room ; 
and  strangers  sometimes  expressed  their  surprise  that  so  many  peo- 
ple should  leave  their  own  firesides  to  sit  in  the  midst  of  eternal  fog 
and  stench.  Nowhere  was  the  smoking  more  constant  than  at  Will's. 
That  celebrated  house,  situated  between  Covent  Garden  and  Bow 
Street,  was  sacred  to  polite  letters.  There  the  talk  was  about  poet- 
ical justice,  and  the  unities  of  place  and  time.  There  was  a  faction 
for  Perrault  and  the  moderns,  a  faction  for  Boileau  and  the  ancien.s. 
One  group  debated  whether  Paradise  Lost  ought  not  to  have  been 


LORD   MACAULAY.  439 

in  rhyme.  To  another  an  envious  poetaster  demonstrated  that  Ven- 
ice Preserved  ought  to  have  been  hooted  from  the  stage.  Under  no 
roof  was  a  greater  variety  of  figures  to  be  seen,  earls  in  stars  and 
garters,  clergymen  in  cassocks  and  bands,  pert  templars,  sheepish 
lads  from  the  universities,  translators  and  index-makers  in  ragged 
coats  of  frieze.  The  great  press  was  to  get  near  the  chair  where  John 
Dryden  sat.  In  winter  that  chair  was  always  in  the  warmest  nook  by 
the  fire  ;  in  summer  it  stood  in  the  balcony.  To  bow  to  him,  and  to 
hear  his  opinion  of  Racine's  last  tragedy,  or  of  Bossu's  treatise  on 
epic  poetry,  was  thought  a  privilege.  A  pinch  from  his  snuff-box 
was  an  honor  sufficient  to  turn  the  head  of  a  young  enthusiast. 
There  were  coffee-houses  where  the  first  medical  men  might  be  con- 
sulted. Dr.  John  Radcliffe,  who,  in  the  year  1685,  rose  to  the  largest 
practice  in  London,  came  daily,  at  the  hour  when  the  Exchange  was 
full,  from  his  house  in  Bow  Street,  then  a  fashionable  part  of  the 
capital,  to  Garraway's,  and  was  to  be  found  surrounded  by  surgeons 
and  apothecaries  at  a  particular  table.  There  were  Puritan  coffee- 
houses, where  no  oath  was  heard,  and  where  lank-haired  men  dis- 
cussed election  and  reprobation  through  their  noses ;  Jew  coffee- 
houses, where  dark-eyed  money-changers  from  Venice  and  from 
Amsterdam  greeted  each  other ;  and  Popish  coffee-houses,  where, 
as  good  Protestants  believed,  Jesuits  planned,  over  their  cups,  an- 
other great  fire,  and  cast  silver  bullets  to  shoot  the  king. 


IMPEACHMENT   OF    WARREN   HASTINGS. 

In  the  mean  time,  the  preparations  for  the  trial  had  proceeded 
rapidly  ;  and  on  the  13th  of  February,  1788,  the  sittings  of  the  Court 
commenced.  There  have  been  spectacles  more  dazzling  to  the  eye, 
more  gorgeous  with  jewelry  and  cloth  of  gold,  more  attractive  to 
grown-up  children,  than  that  which  was  then  exhibited  at  Westmin- 
ster ;  but,  perhaps,  there  never  was  a  spectacle  so  well  calculated  to 
strike  a  highly  cultivated,  a  reflecting,  an  imaginative  mind.  All  the 
various  kinds  of  interest  which  belong  to  the  near  and  to  the  dis- 
tant, to  the  present  and  to  the  past,  were  collected  on  one  spot  and 
in  one  hour.  All  the  talents  and  all  the  accomplishments  which 
are  developed  by  liberty  and  civilization  were  now  displayed,  with 
every  advantage  that  could  be  derived  both  from  co-operation  and 
from  contrast.  Every  step  in  the  proceedings  carried  the  mind 
either  backward,  through  many  troubled  centuries,  to  the  days  when 
the  foundations  of  our  constitution  were  laid ;  or  far  away,  over 


440  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

boundless  seas  and  deserts,  to  dusky  nations  living  under  strange 
stars,  worshipping  strange  gods,  and  writing  strange  characters 
from  right  to  left.  The  High  Court  of  Parliament  was  to  sit, 
according  to  forms  handed  down  from  the  days  of  the  Plantage- 
nets,  on  an  Englishman  accused  of  exercising  tyranny  over  the  lord 
of  the  holy  city  of  Benares,  and  the  ladies  of  the  princely  house  of 
Oude. 

The  place  was  worthy  of  such  a  trial.  It  was  the  great  hall  of 
William  Rufus,  the  hall  which  had  resounded  with  acclamations  at 
the  inauguration  of  thirty  kings,  the  hall  which  had  witnessed  the 
just  sentence  of  Bacon  and  the  just  absolution  of  Somers,  the  hall 
where  the  eloquence  of  Strafford  had  for  a  moment  awed  and  melted 
a  victorious  party  inflamed  with  just  resentment,  the  hall  where 
Charles  had  confronted  the  High  Court  of  Justice  with  the  placid 
courage  which  has  half  redeemed  his  fame.  Neither  military  nor 
civil  pomp  was  wanting.  The  avenues  were  lined  with  grenadiers. 
The  streets  were  kept  clear  by  cavalry.  The  peers,  robed  in  gold 
and  ermine,  were  marshalled  by  the  heralds  under  Garter  King-at- 
Arms.  The  judges  in  their  vestments  of  state  attended  to  give 
advice  on  points  of  law.  Near  a  hundred  and  seventy  Lords,  three 
fourths  of  the  Upper  House,  as  the  Upper  House  then  was,  walked 
in  solemn  order  from  their  usual  place  of  assembling  to  the  tribunal. 
The  junior  baron  present  led  the  way.  Lord  Heathfield,  recently 
ennobled  for  his  memorable  defence  of  Gibraltar  against  the  fleets 
and  armies  of  France  and  Spain.  The  long  procession  was  closed 
by  the  Duke  of  Norfolk,  earl  marshal  of  the  realm,  by  the  great  dig- 
taries,  and  by  the  brothers  and  sons  of  the  king.  Last  of  all  came 
the  Prince  of  Wales,  conspicuous  by  his  fine  person  and  noble  bear- 
ing. The  gray  old  walls  were  hung  with  scarlet.  The  long  galleries 
were  crowded  by  an  audience  such  as  has  rarely  excited  the  fears 
or  the  emulation  of  an  orator.  There  were  gathered  together,  from 
all  parts  of  a  great,  free,  enlightened,  and  prosperous  realm,  grace 
and  female  loveliness,  wit  and  learning,  the  representatives  of  everv 
science  and  of  every  art.  There  were  seated  around  the  queen  the 
fair-haired  young  daughters  of  the  house  of  Brunswick.  There  the 
ambassadors  of  great  kings  and  commonwealths  gazed  with  admira- 
tion on  a  spectacle  which  no  other  country  in  the  world  could  pre- 
sent. There  Siddons,  in  the  prime  of  her  majestic  beauty,  looked 
with  emotion  on  a  scene  surpassing  all  the  imitations  of  the  stage. 
There  the  historian  of  the  Roman  Empire  thought  of  the  days  when 
Cicero  pleaded  the  cause  of  Sicily  against  Verres,  and  when,  before 


LORD   MACAULAY.  441 

a  senate  which  still  retained  some  show  of  freedom,  Tacitus  thundered 
against  the  oppressor  of  Africa.  There  were  seen,  side  by  side,  the 
greatest  painter  and  the  greatest  scholar  of  the  age.  The  spectacle 
had  allured  Reynolds  from  that  easel  which  has  preserved  to  us  the 
thoughtful  foreheads  of  so  many  writers  and  statesmen,  and  the 
sweet  smiles  of  so  many  noble  matrons.  It  had  induced  Parr  to 
suspend  his  labors  in  that  dark  and  profound  mine  from  which  he  had 
extracted  a  vast  treasure  of  erudition,  a  treasure  too  often  buried 
in  the  earth,  too  often  paraded  with  injudicious  and  inelegant  osten- 
tation, but  still  precious,  massive,  and  splendid.  There  appeared 
the  voluptuous  charms  of  her  to  whom  the  heir  of  the  throne  had  in 
secret  plighted  his  faith.  There,  too,  was  she,  the  beautiful  mother 
of  a  beautiful  race,  the  Saint  Cecilia,  whose  delicate  features,  lighted 
up  by  love  and  music,  art  has  rescued  from  the  common  decay. 
There  were  the  members  of  that  brilliant  society  which  quoted,  crit- 
icised, and  exchanged  repartees,  under  the  rich  peacock  hangings  of 
Mrs.  Montague,  and  there  the  ladies  whose  lips,  more  persuasive 
than  those  of  Fox  himself,  had  carried  the  Westminster  election 
against  palace  and  treasury,  shone  round  Georgiana,  Duchess  of 
Devonshire. 

The  sergeants  made  proclamation.  Hastings  advanced  to  the 
bar,  and  bent  his  knee.  The  culprit  was,  indeed,  not  unworthy  of 
that  great  presence.  He  had  ruled  an  extensive  and  populous  coun- 
try, had  made  laws  and  treaties,  had  sent  forth  armies,  had  set  up 
and  pulled  down  princes.  And  in  his  high  place  he  had  so  borne 
himself,  that  all  had  feared  him,  that  most  had  loved  him,  and  that 
hatred  itself  could  deny  him  no  title  to  glory  except  virtue.  He 
looked  like  a  great  man,  and  not  Hke  a  bad  man.  A  person  small 
and  emaciated,  yet  deriving  dignity  from  a  carriage  which,  while  it 
indicated  deference  to  the  court,  indicated  also  habitual  self-posses- 
sion and  self-respect,  a  high  and  intellectual  forehead,  a  brow  pen- 
sive, but  not  gloomy,  a  mouth  of  inflexible  decision,  a  face  pale 
and  worn,  but  serene,  on  which  was  written,  as  legibly  as  under  the 
great  picture  in  the  council-chamber  at  Calcutta,  Mens  cequa  in  ar- 
diiis;  such  was  the  aspect  with  which  the  great  proconsul  presented 
himself  to  his  judges. 

His  counsel  accompanied  him,  men  all  of  whom  were  afterwards 
raised  by  their  talents  and  learning  to  the  highest  posts  in  their  pro- 
fession, the  bold  and  strong-minded  Law,  afterwards  chief  justice 
of  the  King's  Bench  ;  the  more  humane  and  eloquent  Dallas,  after- 
wards chief  justice  of  the  Common  Pleas  ;  and  Plomer  who,  nearly 


442  HAND  BOOK   OF    ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

twenty  years  later,  successfully  conducted  in  the  same  high  court 
the  defence  of  Lord  Melville,  and  subsequently  became  Vice-Chan- 
cellor  and  Master  of  the  Rolls. 

But  neither  the  culprit  nor  his  advocates  attracted  so  much  notice 
as  the  accusers.  In  the  midst  of  the  blaze  of  red  drapery,  a  space 
had  been  fitted  up  with  green  benches  and  tables  for  the  Com- 
mons. The  managers,  with  Burke  at  their  head,  appeared  in  full 
dress.  The  collectors  of  gossip  did  not  fail  to  remark  that  even 
Fox,  generally  so  regardless  of  his  appearance,  had  paid  to  the  illus- 
trious tribunal  the  compliment  of  wearing  a  bag  and  sword.  Pitt 
had  refused  to  be  one  of  the  conductors  of  the  impeachment ;  and 
his  commanding,  copious,  and  sonorous  eloquence  was  wanting  to 
that  great  muster  of  various  talents.  Age  and  bhndness  had  unfit- 
ted Lord  North  for  the  duties  of  a  pubhc  prosecutor  ;  and  his  friends 
were  left  without  the  help  of  his  excellent  sense,  his  tact  and  his 
urbanity.  But  in  spite  of  the  absence  of  these  two  distinguished 
members  of  the  Lower  House,  the  box  in  which  the  managers  stood 
contained  an  array  of  speakers  such  as  perhaps  had  not  appeared 
together  since  the  great  age  of  Athenian  eloquence.  There  stood 
Fox  and  Sheridan,  the  Enghsh  Demosthenes  and  the  English  Hy- 
perides.  There  was  Burke,  ignorant,  indeed,  or  negligent  of  the 
art  of  adapting  his  reasonings  and  his  style  to  the  capacity  and  taste 
of  his  hearers,  but  in  aptitude  of  comprehension  and  richness  of 
imagination  superior  to  every  orator,  ancient  or  modern.  There, 
with  eyes  reverentially  fixed  on  Burke,  appeared  the  finest  gentleman 
of  the  age,  his  form  developed  by  every  manly  exercise,  his  face 
beaming  with  intelligence  and  spirit,  the  ingenious,  the  chivalrous, 
the  high-souled  Windham.  Nor,  though  surrounded  by  such  men, 
did  the  youngest  manager  pass  unnoticed.  At  an  age  when  most 
of  those  who  distinguish  themselves  in  life  are  still  contending  for 
prizes  and  fellowships  at  college,  he  had  won  for  himself  a  conspic- 
uous place  in  Parliament.  No  advantage  of  fortune  or  connection 
was  wanting  that  could  set  off  to  the  height  his  splendid  talents  and 
his  unblemished  honor.  At  twenty-three  he  had  been  thought 
worthy  to  be  ranked  with  the  veteran  statesmen  who  appeared  as 
the  delegates  of  the  British  Commons,  at  the  bar  of  the  British  no- 
bility. All  who  stood  at  that  bar,  save  him  alone,  are  gone,  cul- 
prit, advocates,  accusers.  To  the  generation  which  is  now  in  the 
vigor  of  life  he  is  the  sole  representative  of  a  great  age  which  has 
passed  away  ;  but  those  who,  within  the  last  ten  years,  have  listened 
with  delight,  till  the  morning  sun  shone  on  the  tapestries  of  the 


LORD  MACAULAY.  443 

House  of  Lords,  to  the  lofty  and  animated  eloquence  of  Charles 
Earl  Grey,  are  able  to  form  some  estimate  of  the  powers  of  a  race 
of  men  among  whom  he  was  not  the  foremost. 

The  charges  and  the  answers  of  Hastings  were  first  read.  This 
ceremony  occupied  two  whole  days,  and  was  rendered  less  tedious 
than  it  would  otherwise  have  been  by  the  silver  voice  and  just 
emphasis  of  Cowper,  the  clerk  of  the  court,  a  near  relation  of 
the  amiable  poet.  On  the  third  day  Burke  arose.  Four  sittings 
were  occupied  by  his  opening  speech,  which  was  intended  to  be  a 
general  introduction  to  all  the  charges.  With  an  exuberance  of 
thought  and  a  splendor  of  diction  which  more  than  satisfied  the 
highly  raised  expectation  of  the  audience,  he  described  the  character 
and  institutions  of  the  natives  of  India,  recounted  the  circumstances 
in  which  the  Asiatic  empire  of  Britain  had  originated,  and  set  forth 
the  constitution  of  the  Company  and  of  the  English  Presidencies. 
Having  thus  attempted  to  communicate  to  his  hearers  an  idea  of 
Eastern  society,  as  vivid  as  that  which  existed  in  his  own  mind,  he 
proceeded  to  arraign  the  administration  of  Hastings  as  systemati- 
cally conducted  in  defiance  of  morality  and  public  law.  The  energy 
and  pathos  of  the  great  orator  extorted  expressions  of  unwonted 
admiration  even  from  the  stern  and  hostile  Chancellor,  and,  for  a 
moment,  seemed  to  pierce  even  the  resolute  heart  of  the  defendant. 
The  ladies  in  the  galleries,  unaccustomed  to  such  displays  of  elo- 
quence, excited  by  the  solemnity  of  the  occasion,  and,  perhaps  not 
unwilling  to  display  their  taste  and  sensibility,  were  in  a  state  of 
uncontrollable  emotion.  Handkerchiefs  were  pulled  out ;  smelling- 
botdes  were  handed  round  ;  hysterical  sobs  and  screams  were  heard  : 
and  Mrs.  Sheridan  was  carried  out  in  a  fit.  At  length  the  orator 
concluded.  Raising  his  voice  till  the  old  arches  of  Irish  oak  re- 
sounded, "  Therefore,"  said  he,  "  hath  it  with  all  confidence  been 
ordered,  by  the  Commons  of  Great  Britain,  that  I  impeach  Warren 
Hastings  of  high  crimes  and  misdemeanors.  I  impeach  him  in  the 
name  of  the  Common's  House  of  Parliament,  whose  trust  he  has 
betrayed.  I  impeach  him  in  the  name  of  the  English  nation,  whose 
ancient  honor  he  has  sullied.  I  impeach  him  in  the  name  of  the 
people  of  India,  whose  rights  he  has  trodden  under  foot,  and  whose 
country  he  has  turned  into  a  desert.  Lastly,  in  the  name  of  human 
nature  itself,  in  the  name  of  both  sexes,  in  the  name  of  every  age, 
in  the  name  of  every  rank,  I  impeach  the  common  enemy  and  op- 
pressor of  all ! " 


444  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 


THE   PERMANENT   INFLUENCE   OF   ATHENIAN   CULTURE. 

If  we  consider  merely  the  subtilty  of  disquisition,  the  force  of 
imagination,  the  perfect  energy  and  elegance  of  expression,  which 
characterize  the  great  works  of  Athenian  genius,  we  must  pronounce 
them  intrinsically  most  valuable  ;  but  what  shall  we  say  when  we 
reflect  that  from  hence  have  sprung,  directly  or  indirectly,  all  the 
noblest  creations  of  the  human  intellect ;  that  from  hence  were  the 
vast  accomplishments  and  the  brilliant  fancy  of  Cicero,  the  wither- 
ing fire  of  Juvenal,  the  plastic  imagination  of  Dante,  the  humor  of 
Cervantes,  the  comprehension  of  Bacon,  the  wit  of  Butler,  the  su- 
preme and  universal  excellence  of  Shakespeare  ?  All  the  triumphs 
of  truth  and  genius  over  prejudice  and  power,  in  every  country  and 
in  every  age,  have  been  the  triumphs  of  Athens.  Wherever  a  few 
great  minds  have  made  a  stand  against  violence  and  fraud,  in  the 
cause  of  liberty  and  reason,  there  has  been  her  spirit  in  the  midst 
of  them,  inspiring,  encouraging,  consoling  ;  by  the  lonely  lamp  of 
Erasmus,  by  the  restless  bed  of  Pascal,  in  the  tribune  of  Mirabeau, 
in  the  cell  of  Galileo,  on  the  scaffold  of  Sidney.  But  who  shall  es- 
timate her  influence  on  private  happiness  1  Who  shall  say  how 
many  thousands  have  been  made  wiser,  happier,  and  better  by  those 
pursuits  in  which  she  has  taught  mankind  to  engage  ;  to  how  many 
the  studies  which  took  their  rise  from  her  have  been  wealth  in  pov- 
erty, liberty  in  bondage,  health  in  sickness,  society  in  solitude  ?  Her 
power  is,  indeed,  manifested  at  the  bar,  in  the  senate,  in  the  field  of 
battle,  in  the  schools  of  philosophy.  But  these  are  not  her  glory. 
Wherever  literature  consoles  sorrow  or  assuages  pain,  wherever  it 
brings  gladness  to  eyes  which  fail  with  wakefulness  and  tears,  and 
ache  for  the  dark  house  and  the  long  sleep,  there  is  exhibited,  in  its 
noblest  form,  the  immortal  influence  of  Athens. 

The  dervise,  in  the  Arabian  tale,  did  not  hesitate  to  abandon  to 
his  comrade  the  camels  with  their  loads  of  jewels  and  gold,  while  he 
retained  the  casket  of  that  mysterious  juice  which  enabled  him  to 
behold  at  one  glance  all  the  hidden  riches  of  the  universe.  Surely 
it  is  no  exaggeration  to  say  that  no  external  advantage  is  to  be  com- 
pared with  that  purification  of  the  intellectual  eye  which  gives  us  to 
contemplate  the  infinite  wealth  of  the  mental  world,  all  the  hoarded 
treasures  of  the  primeval  dynasties,  all  the  shapeless  ore  of  its  yet 
unexplored  mines.  This  is  the  gift  of  Athens  to  man.  Her  free- 
dom and  her  power  have,  for  more  than  twenty  centuries,  been  anni- 
hilated, her  people  have  degenerated  into  timid  slaves,  her  language 


LORD   MACAULAY.  445 

into  a  barbarous  jargon,  her  temples  have  been  given  up  to  the  suc- 
cessive depredations  of  Romans,  Turks,  and  Scotchmen  ;  ^  but  her 
intellectual  empire  is  imperishable.  And  when  those  who  have  ri- 
valled her  greatness  shall  have  shared  her  fate  ;  when  civilization  and 
knowledge  shall  have  fixed  their  abode  in  distant  continents ;  when 
the  sceptre  shall  have  passed  away  from  England  ;  when,  perhaps, 
travellers  from  distant  regions  shall  in  vain  labor  to  decipher  on 
some  mouldering  pedestal  the  name  of  our  proudest  chief,  shall 
hear  savage  hymns  chanted  to  some  misshapen  idol  over  the  ruined 
dome  of  our  proudest  temple,  and  shall  see  a  single  naked  fisher- 
man wash  his  nets  in  the  river  of  the  ten  thousand  masts,  her  in- 
fluence and  her  glory  will  still  survive,  fresh  in  eternal  youth,  exempt 
from  mutability  and  decay,  immortal  as  the  intellectual  principle 
from  which  they  derived  their  origin,  and  over  which  they  exercise 
their  control. 

THE   PURITAN   CHARACTER. 

The  Puritans  were  men  whose  minds  had  derived  a  peculiar  char- 
acter from  the  daily  contemplation  of  superior  beings  and  external 
interests.  Not  content  with  acknowledging,  in  general  terms,  an 
overruling  Providence,  they  habitually  ascribed  every  event  to  the 
will  of  the  Great  Being,  for  whose  power  nothing  was  too  vast,  for 
whose  inspection  nothing  was  too  minute.  To  know  him,  to  serve 
him,  to  enjoy  him,  was  with  them  the  great  end  of  existence.  They 
rejected  with  contempt  the  ceremonious  homage  which  other  sects 
substituted  for  the  pure  worship  of  the  soul.  Instead  of  catching 
occasional  glimpses  of  the  Deity  through  an  obscuring  veil,  they 
aspired  to  gaze  full  on  the  intolerable  brightness,  and  to  commune 
with  him  face  to  face.  Hence  originated  their  contempt  for  terres- 
trial distinctions.  The  difference  between  the  greatest  and  meanest 
of  mankind  seemed  to  vanish,  when  compared  with  the  boundless 
interval  which  separated  the  whole  race  from  him  on  whom  their 
own  eyes  were  constantly  fixed.  They  recognized  no  title  to  supe- 
riority but  his  favor  ;  and,  confident  of  that  favor,  they  despised  all 
the  accomplishments  and  all  the  dignities  of  the  world.  If  they 
were  unacquainted  with  the  works  of  philosophers  and  poets,  they 
were  deeply  read  in  the  oracles  of  God.  If  their  names  were  not 
found  in  the  registers  of  heralds,  they  felt  assured  that  they  were 

1  The  Parthenon  and  other  temples  were  despoiled  by  Lord  Eigin  to  enrich  the  British 
Museum, 


446  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

recorded  in  the  Book  of  Life.  If  their  steps  were  not  accompanied 
by  a  splendid  train  of  menials,  legions  of  ministering  angels  had 
charge  over  them.  Their  palaces  were  houses  not  made  with  hands, 
their  diadems  crowns  of  glory  which  should  never  fade  away.  On 
the  rich  and  the  eloquent,  on  nobles  and  priests,  they  looked  down 
with  contempt ;  for  they  esteemed  themselves  rich  in  a  more  pre- 
cious treasure,  and  eloquent  in  a  more  sublime  language,  nobles  by 
the  right  of  an  earlier  creation,  and  priests  by  the  imposition  of  a 
mightier  hand.  The  very  meanest  of  them  was  a  being  to  whose 
fate  a  mysterious  and  terrible  importance  belonged  —  on  whose 
slightest  actions  the  spirits  of  hght  and  darkness  looked  with  anx- 
ious interest  —  who  had  been  destined,  before  heaven  and  earth 
were  created,  to  enjoy  a  felicity  which  should  continue  when  heaven 
and  earth  should  have  passed  away.  Events  which  short-sighted 
politicians  ascribed  to  earthly  causes  had  been  ordained  on  his  ac- 
count. For  his  sake  empires  had  risen,  and  flourished,  and  decayed. 
For  his  sake  the  Almighty  had  proclaimed  his  will  by  the  pen  of  the 
evangelist  and  the  harp  of  the  prophet.  He  had  been  rescued  by 
no  common  deliverer  from  the  grasp  of  no  common  foe.  He  had 
been  ransomed  by  the  sweat  of  no  vulgar  agony,  .by  the  blood  of  no 
earthly  sacrifice.  It  was  for  him  that  the  sun  had  been  darkened, 
that  the  rocks  had  been  rent,  that  the  dead  had  arisen,  that  all  na- 
ture had  shuddered  at  the  sufferings  of  her  expiring  God  ! 

Thus  the  Puritan  was  made  up  of  two  different  men  —  the  one  all 
self-abasement,  penitence,  gratitude,  passion  ;  the  other  proud,  calm, 
inflexible,  sagacious.  He  prostrated  himself  in  the  dust  before  his 
Maker  ;  but  he  set  his  foot  on  the  neck  of  his  king.  In  his  devo- 
tional retirement,  he  prayed  with  convulsions,  and  groans,  and  tears. 
He  was  half  maddened  by  glorious  or  terrible  illusions.  He  heard 
the  lyres  of  angels  or  the  tempting  whispers  of  fiends.  He  caught 
a  gleam  of  the  Beatific  Vision,  or  woke  screaming  from  dreams  of 
everlasting  fire.  Like  Vane,  he  thought  himself  intrusted  with  the 
sceptre  of  the  millennial  year.  Like  Fleetwood,  he  cried  in  the  bit- 
terness of  his  soul  that  God  had  hid  his  face  from  him.  But  when 
he  took  his  seat  in  the  council,  or  girt  on  his  sword  for  war,  these 
tempestuous  workings  of  the  soul  had  left  no  perceptible  trace  be- 
hind them.  People  who  saw  nothing  of  the  godly  but  their  uncouth 
visages,  and  heard  nothing  from  them  but  their  groans  and  their 
■yvhining  hymns,  might  laugh  at  them.  But  those  had  little  reason 
to  laugh  who  encountered  them  in  the  hall  of  debate  or  in  the  field 
of  battle.  These  fanatics  brought  to  civil  and  military  affairs  a  cool- 
ness of  judgment  and  an  immutability  of  purpose  which  some  writers 


LORD  MACAULAY. 


447 


have  thought  inconsistent  with  their  rehgious  zeal,  but  which  were, 
in  fact,  the  necessary  effects  of  it.  The  intensity  of  their  feelings 
on  one  subject  made  them  tranquil  on  every  other.  One  overpower- 
ing sentiment  had  subjected  to  itself  pity  and  hatred,  ambition  and 
fear.  Death  had  lost  its  terrors,  and  pleasure  its  charms.  They 
had  their  smiles  and  their  tears,  their  raptures  and  their  sorrows, 
but  not  for  the  things  of  this  world.  Enthusiasm  had  made  them 
stoics,  had  cleared  their  minds  from  every  vulgar  passion  and  preju- 
dice, and  raised  them  above  the  influence  of  danger  and  of  corrup- 
tion. It  sometimes  might  lead  them  to  pursue  unwise  ends,  but 
never  to  choose  ^unwise  means.  They  went  through  the  world  like 
Sir  Artegale's  iron  man  Talus  with  his  flail,  crushing  and  trampHng 
down  oppressors,  mingling  with  human  beings,  but  having  neither 
part  nor  lot  in  human  infirmities  ;  insensible  to  fatigue,  to  pleasure, 
and  to  pain  ;  not  to  be  pierced  by  any  weapon,  not  to  be  withstood 
by  any  barrier. 

HORATIUS. 

A    LAY    MADE   ABOUT    THE    YEAR    OF    THE   CITY    CCCLX. 


Lars  Porsena  of  Clusium 

By  the  Nine  Gods  he  swore 
That  the  great  house  of  Tarquin 

Should  suffer  wrong  no  more. 
By  the  Nine  Gods  he  swore  it, 

And  named  a  trysting  day, 
And  bade  his  messengers  ride  fortli. 
East  and  west  and  south  and  north, 

To  summon  his  array. 


From  lordly  Volaterrae, 

Where  scowls  the  far-famed  hold 
Piled  by  the  hands  of  giants 

For  godlike  kings  of  old  ; 
From  sea-girt  Populonia, 

Whose  sentinels  descry 
Sardinia's  snowy  mountain  tops 

Fringing  the  southern  sky  ; 


East  and  west  and  south  and  north 

The  messengers  ride  fast. 
And  tower  and  town  and  cottage 

Have  heard  the  trumpet's  blast. 
Shame  on  the  false  Etruscan 

Who  lingers  in  his  home 
When  Porsena  of  Clusium 

Is  on  the  march  for  Rome. 


From  the  proud  mart  of  Pisae, 

Queen  of  the  western  waves, 
Where  ride  Massilia's  triremes 

Heavy  with  fair-haired  slaves  ; 
From  where  sweet  Clanis  wanders 

Through  com  and  vines  and  flowers ; 
From  where  Cortona  lifts  to  heaven 

Her  diadem  of  towers. 


The  horsemen  and  the  footmen 

Are  pouring  in  amain, 
From  many  a  stately  market-place  ; 

From  many  a  fruitful  plain  ; 
From  many  a  lonely  hamlet. 

Which,  hid  by  beech  and  pine, 
Like  an  eagle's  nest,  hangs  on  the  crest 

Of  purple  Apennine ; 


Tall  are  the  oaks  whose  acorns 

Drop  in  dark  Auser's  rill ; 
Fat  are  the  stags  that  champ  the  boughs 

Of  the  Ciminian  hill ; 
Beyond  all  streams  Clitumnus 

Is  to  the  herdsman  dear  ; 
Best  of  all  poo'.s  the  fowler  loves 

The  great  Volsinian  mere. 


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But  now  no  stroke  of  woodman 

Is  heard  by  Auser's  rill  ; 
No  hunter  tracks  the  stag's  green  path 

Up  the  Ciminian  hill ; 
Unwatched  along  Clitumnus 

Grazes  the  milk-white  steer ; 
Unharmed  the  water-fowl  may  dip 

In  the  Volsinian  mere. 


The  harvests  of  Arretium, 

This  year,  old  men  shall  reap ; 
This  year,  young  boys  in  Umbro 

Shall  plunge  the  struggling  sheep  ; 
And  in  the  vats  of  Luna, 

This  year,  the  must  shall  foam 
Round  the  white  feet  of  laughing  girls. 

Whose  sires  have  marched  to  Rome. 


There  be  thirty  chosen  prophets, 

The  wisest  of  the  land, 
Who  alway  by  Lars  Porsena 

Both  morn  and  evening  stand : 
Evening  and  morn  the  Thirty 

Have  turned  the  verses  o'er. 
Traced  from  the  right  on  linen  white 

By  mighty  seers  of  yore. 


And  with  one  voice  the  Thirty 

Have  their  glad  answer  given  ; 
"  Go  forth,  go  forth,  Lars  Porsena 

Go  forth,  beloved  of  Heaven  ; 
Go,  and  return  in  glory 

To  Clusium's  royal  dome  ; 
And  hang  round  Nurscia's  altars 

The  golden  shields  of  Rome." 


And  now  hath  every  city 

Sent  up  her  tale  of  men  ; 
The  foot  are  fourscore  thousand, 

The  horse  are  thousands  ten. 
Before  the  gates  of  Sutrium 

Is  met  the  great  array  ; 
A  proud  man  was  Lars  Porsena 

Upon  the  trysting  day. 


For  all  the  Etruscan  armies 
Were  ranged  beneath  his  eye, 

And  many  a  banished  Roman, 
And  many  a  stout  ally ; 


And  with  a  mighty  following 
To  join  the  muster  came 

The  Tusculan  Mamilius, 
Prince  of  the  Latian  name. 


But  by  the  yellow  Tiber 

Was  tumult  and  affright : 
From  all  the  spacious  champaign 

To  Rome  men  took  their  flight. 
A  mile  around  the  city, 

The  throng  stopped  up  the  ways  ; 
A  fearful  sight  it  was  to  see 

Through  two  long  nights  and  days. 


For  aged  folk  on  crutches, 

And  women  great  with  child. 
And  mothers  sobbing  over  babes 

That  clung  to  them  and  smiled. 
And  sick  men  borne  in  litters 

High  on  the  necks  of  slaves, 
And  troops  of  sun-burned  husbandmen 

With  reaping-hooks  and  staves. 


And  droves  of  mules  and  asses 

Laden  with  skins  of  wine. 
And  endless  flocks  of  goats  and  sheep, 

And  endless  herds  of  kine, 
And  endless  trains  of  wagons 

That  creaked  beneath  the  weight 
Of  corn-sacks  and  of  household  goods, 

Choked  every  roaring  gate. 


Now  from  the  rock  Tarpeian, 

Could  the  wan  burghers  spy 
The  line  of  blazing  villages 

Red  in  the  midnight  sky. 
The  Fathers  of  the  City, 

They  sat  all  night  and  day. 
For  every  hour  some  horseman  came 

With  tidings  of  dismay. 


To  eastward  and  to  westward 

Have  spread  the  Tuscan  bands  ; 
Nor  house,  nor  fence,  nor  dovecote 

In  Crustumerium  stands. 
Verbenna  down  to  Ostia 

Hath  wasted  all  the  plain  ; 
Astur  hath  stormed  Janiculum, 

And  the  stout  guards  are  slain. 


LORD  MACAULAY. 


449 


I  wis,  in  all  the  Senate, 

There  was  no  heart  so  bold, 
But  sore  it  ached,  and  fast  it  beat, 

When  that  ill  news  was  told. 
Forthwith  up  rose  the  Consul, 

Up  rose  the  Fathers  all ; 
In  haste  they  girded  up  their  gowns, 

And  hied  them  to  the  wall. 

XIX. 

"Iliey  held  a  council  standing 

Before  the  River-gate  ; 
Short  time  was  there,  ye  well  may  guess, 

For  musing  or  debate. 
Out  spake  the  Consul  roundly  : 

' '  The  bridge  must  straight  go  down  ; 
For,  since  Janiculum  is  lost. 

Nought  else  can  save  the  town." 


By  port  and  vest,  by  horse  and  crest, 

Each  warlike  Lucomo. 
There  Cihiius  of  Arretium 

On  his  fleet  roan  was  seen  ; 
And  Astur  of  the  fourfold  shield. 
Girt  with  the  brand  none  else  may  wield, 
Tolumnius  with  the  belt  of  gold, 
And  dark  Verbenna  from  the  hold 

By  reedy  Thrasymene- 


Fast  by  the  royal  standard, 

O'erlooking  all  the  war, 
Lars  Porsena  of  Clusium 

Sat  in  his  ivory  car. 
By  the  right  wheel  rode  Mamilius, 

Prince  of  the  Latian  name  ; 
And  by  the  left  false  Sextus, 

That  wrought  the  deed  of  shame. 


Just  then  a  scout  came  flying, 

All  wild  with  haste  and  fear  : 
"To  arms  !  to  arms  !  Sir  Consul ; 

Lars  Porsena  is  here  !  " 
On  the  low  hi^ls  to  westward 

The  Consul  fixed  his  eye. 
And  saw  the  swarthy  storm  of  dust 

Rise  fast  along  the  sky. 


XXV. 

But  when  the  face  of  Sextus 

Was  seen  among  the  foss, 
A  yell  that  rent  the  firmament 

From  all  the  town  arose. 
On  the  house-tops  was  no  woman 

But  spat  towards  him  and  liissed  ; 
No  child  but  screamed  out  curses, 

And  shook  its  little  fist. 


And  nearer  fast  and  nearer 

Doth  the  red  whirlwind  come  ; 
And  louder  still,  and  still  more  loud 
From  underneath  that  rolling  cloud, 
Is  heard  the  trumpet's  war-note  proud, 

The  trampling,  and  the  hum. 
And  plainly  and  more  plainly 

Now  through  the  gloom  appears, 
Far  to  left  and  far  to  right, 
In  broken  gleams  of  dark-blue  light, 
The  long  array  of  helmets  bright, 

The  long  array  of  spears. 


And  plainly  and  more  plainly. 

Above  that  glimmering  line, 
Now  might  ye  see  the  banners 

Of  twelve  fair  cities  shine  ; 
But  the  banner  of  proud  Clusium 

Was  highest  of  them  all. 
The  terror  of  the  Umbrian, 

The  terror  of  the  Gaul. 

XXIII. 

And  plainly  and  more  plainly 
Now  might  the  burghers  know, 
2Q 


But  the  Consul's  brow  was  sad. 

And  the  Consul's  speech  was  low, 
And  darky  looked  he  at  the  wall. 

And  darkly  at  the  foe. 
"Their van  will  be  upon  us 

Before  the  bridge  goes  down  ; 
And  if  they  once  may  win  the  bridge. 

What  hope  to  save  the  town  ?  " 


Then  out  spake  brave  Horatius, 

The  captain  of  the  gate  : 
"  To  every  man  upon  this  earth 

Death  cometh  soon  or  late. 
And  how  can  man  die  better 

Than  facing  fearful  odds. 
For  the  ashes  of  his  fathers 

And  the  temples  of  his  Gods, 

XXVIII. 

"And  for  the  tender  mother 
Who  dandled  him  to  rest. 

And  for  the  wife  who  nurses* 
His  baby  at  her  breast, 


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And  for  the  holy  maidens 
Who  feed  the  eternal  flame, 

To  save  them  from  false  Sextus 
That  wrought  the  deed  of  shame  ? 


"  Hew  down  the  bridge,  Sir  Consul, 

With  all  the  speed  ye  may  ; 
I  with  two  more  to  help  me, 

Will  hold  the  foe  in  play.' 
In  yon  strait  path  a  thousand 

May  well  be  stopped  by  three. 
Now  who  will  stand  on  either  hand. 

And  keep  the  bridge  with  me  ?" 


Then  out  spake  Spurius  Lartius  ; 

A  Ramnian  proud  was  he :    • 
"  Lo,  I  will  stand  at  thy  rijrht  hand. 

And  keep  the  bridge  with  thee." 
And  out  spake  strong  Herminius  ; 

Of  Titian  blood  was  he  : 
"  I  will  abide  on  thy  left  side. 

And  keep  the  bridge  with  thee." 


"  Horatius,"  quoth  the  Consul, 

"As  thou  sayest,  so  let  it  be." 
And  straight  against  that  great  array 

For'ih  went  the  dauntless  Three. 
For  Remans  in  Rome's  quarrel 

Spared  neither  land  nor  gold. 
Nor  son  nor  wife,  nor  limb  nor  life. 

In  the  brave  days  of  old. 


Then  none  was  for  a  party  ; 

Then  all  were  for  the  state: 
Then  the  great  man  helped  the  poor, 

And  the  poor  man  loved  the  great : 
Then  lands  were  fairly  portioned : 

Then  spoils  were  fairly  sold : 
The  Romans  were  like  brothers 

In  fhe  brave  days  of  old. 


XXXIV. 

Now  while  the  Three  were  tightening 

Their  harness  on  their  backs, 
The  Consul  was  the  foremost  man 

To  take  in  hand  an  axe  : 
And  Fathers  mixed  with  Commons 

Seized  hatchet,  bar,  and  crow. 
And  smote  upon  the  planks  above, 

And  loosed  the  props  below. 

XXXV. 

Meanwhile  the  Tuscan  army. 

Right  glorious  to  behold, 
Came  flashing  back  the  noonday  light, 
Rank  behind  rank,  like  surges  bright 

Of  a  broad  sea  of  gold. 
Four  hundred  trumpets  sounded 

A  peal  of  warlike  glee. 
As  that  great  host,  with  measured  tread, 
And  spears  advanced,  and  ensigns  spread, 
Rolled  slowly  towards  the  bridge's  head. 

Where  stood  the  dauntless  Three. 


The  Three  stood  calm  and  silent, 

And  looked  upon  the  foes. 
And  a  great  shout  of  laughter 

From  all  the  vanguard  rose  : 
And  forth  three  chiefs  came  spurring 

Before  that  deep  array ; 
To  earth  they  sprang,  their  swords  they  drew, 
And  lifted  high  their  shields,  and  flew 

To  win  the  narrow  way  :  — 

XXXVII. 

Aunus  from  green  Tifernum, 

Lord  of  the  Hill  of  Vines  ; 
And  Seius,  whose  eight  hundred  slaves 

Sicken  in  Ilva's  mines  ; 
And  Picus,  long  to  Clusiura 

Vassal  in  peace  and  war. 
Who  led  to  fight  his  Umbrian  powers 
From  that  gray  crag  where,  girt  with  towers, 
The  fortress  of  Nequinum  lowers 

O'er  the  pale  waves  of  Nar. 


Now,  Roman  is  to  Roman 

More  hateful  than  a  foe. 
And  the  Tribunes  beard  the  high. 

And  the  Fathers  grind  the  low. 
As  we  wax  hot  in  faction, 

In  battle  we  wax  cold  : 
Wherefore  men  fight  not  as  they  fought 

In  the  brave  days  of  old. 


XXXVIII. 

Stout  Lartius  hurled  down  Aunus 

Into  the  stream  beneath : 
Herminius  struck  at  Seius, 

And  clove  him  to  the  teeth : 
At  Picus  brave  Horatius 

Darted  one  fiery  thrust  ; 
And  the  proud  Umbrian's  gilded  arms 

Clashed  in  the  bloody  dust. 


LORD  MACAULAY. 


45  J 


XXXIX. 

Then  Ocnus  of  Falerii 

Rushed  on  the  Roman  Three  ; 
And  Lausulus  of  Urgo, 

The  rover  of  the  sea  ; 
And  Aruns  of  Volsinium, 

Who  slew  the  great  wild  boar, 
The  great  wild  boar  that  had  his  den 
Amidst  the  reeds  of  Cosa's  fen, 
And  wasted  fields,  and  slaughtered  men, 

Along  Albinia's  shore. 


Herminius  smote  down  Arims : 

Lartius  laid  Ocnus  low : 
Right  to  the  heart  of  Lausulus 

Horatius  sent  a  blow. 
"Lie  there,"  he  cried,  "fell  pirate! 

No  more,  aghast  and  pale. 
From  Ostia's  walls  the  crowd  shall  mark 
The  track  of  thy  destroying  bark. 
No  more  Campania's  hinds  shall  fly 
To  woods  and  caverns  when  they  spy 

Thy  thrice  accursed  sail." 


But  now  no  sound  of  laughter 

Was  heard  among  the  foes. 
A  wild  and  wrathful  clamor 

From  all  the  vanguard  rose. 
Six  spears'  lengths  from  the  entrance 

Halted  that  deep  array, 
And  for  a  space  no  man  came  forth 

To  win  the  narrow  way. 


But  hark  !  the  cry  is  Astur : 

And,  lo  !  the  ranks  divide  ; 
And  the  great  Lord  of  Luna 

Comes  with  his  stately  stride. 
Upon  his  ample  shoulders 

Clangs  loud  the  fourfold  shield. 
And  in  his  hand  he  shakes  the  brand 

Which  none  but  he  can  wield. 


He  smiled  on  those  bold  Romans 

A  smile  serene  and  high  ; 
He  eyed  the  flinching  Tuscans, 

And  scorn  was  in  his  eye. 
Quoth  he,  "  The  she  wolfs  litter 

Stand  savagely  at  bay  ; 
But  will  ye  dare  to  follow. 

If  Astur  clears  the  way  ? " 


Then,  whirling  up  his  broadsword 

With  both  hands  to  the  height, 
He  rushed  against  Horatius, 

And  smote  with  all  his  might. 
With  shield  and  blade  Horatius 

Right  deftly  turned  the  blow. 
The  blow,  though  turned,  came  yet  too  nigh  : 
It  missed  his  helm,  but  gashed  his  thigh  : 
The  Tuscans  raised  a  jojrful  cry 

To  see  the  red  blood  flow. 

XLV. 
He  reeled,  and  on  Herminius 

He  leaned  one  breathing-space  ; 
Then,  like  a  wildcat  mad  with  wounds, 

Sprang  right  at  Astur's  face. 
Through  teeth,  and  skull,  and  helmet. 

So  fierce  a  thruft  he  sped. 
The  good  sword  stood  a  hand-breadth  out 

Behind  the  Tuscan's  head. 


And  the  great  Lord  of  Luna 

Fell  at  that  deadly  stroke, 
As  falls  on  Mount  Alvernus 

A  thunder-smitten  oak. 
Far  o'er  the  crashing  forest 

The  giant  arms  lie  spread  ; 
And  the  pale  augurs,  muttering  low. 

Gaze  on  the  blasted  head. 

XLVII. 

On  Astur's  throat  Horatius 

Right  firmly  pressed  his  heel, 
And  thrice  and  four  times  tugged  amain 

Ere  he  wrenched  out  the  steel. 
"  And  see, "  he  cried,  "  the  welcome. 

Fair  guests,  that  waits  you  here  ! 
What  noble  Lucomo  comes  next, 

To  taste  our  Roman  cheer  ?  " 

XLVIII. 

But  at  this  haughty  challenge 

A  sullen  murmur  ran. 
Mingled  of  wrath,  and  shame,  and  dread. 

Along  that  glittering  van. 
There  lacked  not  men  of  prowess, 

Nor  men  of  lordly  race  ; 
For  all  Etruria's  noblest 

Were  round  the  fatal  place. 

XLIX. 

But  all  Etruria's  noblest 

Felt  their  hearts  sink  to  see 
On  the  earth  the  bloody  corpses, 


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HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 


In  the  path  the  dauntless  Three : 
And,  from  the  ghastly  entrance 

Where  those  bold  Romans  stood, 
All  shrank,  like  boys  who  unaware, 
Ranging  the  woods  to  start  a  hare. 
Come  to  the  mouth  of  the  dark  lair 
Where,  growling  low,  a  fierce  old  bear 

Lies  amidst  bones  and  blood. 


Was  none  who  would  be  foremost 

To  lead  such  dire  attack  ; 
But  those  behind  cried  "  Forward  !  " 

And  those  before  cried  "  Back  ! " 
And  backward  now  and  forward 

Wavers  the  deep  array  ; 
And  on  the  tossing  sea  of  steel, 
To  and  fro  the  standards  reel ; 
And  the  victorious  trumpet-peal 

Dies  fitfully  away. 


Yet  one  man  for  one  moment 

Strode  out  before  the  crowd  ; 
Well  known  was  he  to  all  the  Three, 

And  they  gave  him  greeting  loud. 
"  Now  welcome,  welcome,  Sextus  ! 

Now  welcome  to  thy  home  ! 
Why  dost  thou  stay,  and  turn  away  ? 

Here  lies  the  road  to  Rome. " 


Thrice  looked  he  at  the  city , 

Thrice  looked  he  at  the  dead  ; 
And  thrice  came  on  in  fury, 

And  thrice  turned  back  in  dread  : 
And,  white  with  fear  and  hatred. 

Scowled  at  the  narrow  way 
Where,  wallowing  in  a  pool  of  blood. 

The  bravest  Tuscans  lay. 


But  meanwhile  axe  and  lever 

Have  manfully  been  plied. 
And  now  the  bridge  hangs  tottering 

Above  the  boiling  tide. 
"  Come  back,  come  back,  Horatius  ! ' 

Loud  cried  the  Fathers  all. 
"  Back,  Lartius  !  back,  Herminius  ! 

Back,  ere  the  ruin  fall  !  " 


Back  darted  Spurius  Lartius  ; 

Herminius  darted  back : 
And,  as  they  passed,  beneath  their  feet 

They  felt  the  timbers  crack. 


But  when  they  turned  their  faces, 

And  on  the  farther  shore 
Saw  brave  Horatius  stand  alone, 

Th(.  y  would  have  crossed  once  more. 


But  with  a  crash  like  thunder 

Fell  every  loosened  beam, 
And,  like  a  dam,  the  mighty  wreck 

Lay  right  athwart  the  stream  : 
And  a  long  shout  of  triumph 

Rose  from  the  walls  of  Rome, 
As  to  the  highest  turret-tops 

Was  splashed  the  yellow  foam. 


And,  like  a  horse  unbroken 

When  first  he  feels  the  rein, 
The  furious  river  struggled  hard, 

And  tossed  his  tawny  mane. 
And  burst  the  curb,  and  bounded, 

Rejoicing  to  be  free. 
And  whirling  down,  in  fierce  career, 
Battlement,  and  plank,  and  pier. 

Rushed  headlong  to  the  sea. 

LVII. 

Alone  stood  brave  Hor-atius, 

But  constant  still  in  mind ; 
Thrice  thirty  thousand  foes  before. 

And  the  broad  flood  behind. 
"Down  with  him  !  "  cried  false  Sextus, 

With  a  smile  on  his  pale  face. 
"  Now  yield  thee,"  cried  Lars  Porsena, 

"  Now  yield  thee  to  our  grace." 


Round  turned  he,  as  not  deigning 

Those  craven  ranks  to  see  ; 
Nought  spake  he  to  Lars  Porsena, 

To  Sextus  nought  spake  he  : 
But  he  saw  on  Palatinus 

The  white  porch  of  his  home  ; 
And  he  spake  to  the  noble  river 

That  rolls  by  the  towers  of  Rome. 

LIX. 

"O,  Tiber!  Father  Tiber! 

To  whom  the  Romans  pray, 
A  Roman's  life,  a  Roman's  arms, 

Take  thou  in  charge  this  day  !  " 
So  he  spake,  and  speaking  sheathed 

The  good  sword  by  hi's  side. 
And,  with  his  harness  on  his  back, 

Plunged  headlong  in  the  tide. 


LORD    MACAULAY. 


4'>3 


No  sound  of  joy  or  sorrow 

Was  heard  from  either  bank  ; 
But  friends  and  foes  in  dumb  surprise, 
With  parted  lips  and  straining  eyes, 

Stood  gazing  where  he  sank  ; 
And  when  above  the  surges 

They  saw  his  crest  appear. 
All  Rome  sent  forth  a  rapturous  cry, 
And  even  the  ranks  of  Tuscany 

Could  scarce  forbear  to  cheer. 


But  fiercely  ran  the  current. 

Swollen  high  by  months  of  rain 
And  fast  his  blood  was  flowir.g  ; 

And  he  was  sore  in  pain, 
And  heavy  with  his  armor, 

And  spent  with  changing  blows, 
And  oft  they  thought  him  sinking. 

But  still  again  he  rose. 


Never,  I  ween,  did  swimmer, 

In  such  an  evil  case, 
Struggle  through  such  a  raging  flood 

Safe  to  the  landing-place : 
But  his  limbs  were  borne  up  bravely 

By  the  brave  heart  within, 
And  our  good  Father  Tiber 

Bare  bravely  up  his  chin. 


"Curse  on  him  !  "  quoth  false  Sextus: 

"  Will  not  the  villain  drown  ? 
But  for  this  stay,  ere  close  of  day 

We  should  have  sacked  the  town." 
"  Heaven  help  him,"  quoth  Lars  Porsena, 

"  And  bring  him  safe  to  shore  ; 
For  such  a  gallant  feat  of  arms 

Was  never  seen  before." 

LXIV. 

And  now  he  feels  the  bottom  : 

Now  on  dry  earth  he  stands  ; 
Now  round  him  throng  the  Fathers 

To  press  his  gory  hands  ; 
•And  now,  with  shouts  and  clapping, 

And  noise  of  weeping  loud, 
He  enters  through  the  River-gate, 

Borne  by  the  joyous  crowd. 


They  gave  him  of  the  corn-land 
That  was  of  public  right 


As  much  as  two  strong  oxen 
Could  plough  from  morn  till  night ; 

And  they  made  a  molten  image, 
And  set  it  up  on  high. 

And  there  it  stands  unto  this  day 
To  witness  if  I  lie. 

LXVI. 

It  stands  in  the  Comitium, 

Plain  for  all  folk  to  see  ; 
Horatius  in  his  harness, 

Halting  upon  one  knee  : 
And  underneath  is  written. 

In  letters  all  of  gold, 
How  valiantly  he  kept  the  bridge 

In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

LXVI  I. 

And  still  his  name  sounds  stirring 

Unto  the  men  of  Rome, 
As  the  trumpet-blast  that  cries  to  them 

To  charge  the  Vo!scian  home  ; 
And  wives  still  pray  to  Juno 

For  boys  with  hearts  as  bold 
As  his  who  kept  the  bridge  so  well 

In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

LXVIII. 

And  in  the  nights  of  winter. 

When  the  cold  north  winds  blow, 
And  the  long  howling  of  the  wolves 

Is  heard  amidst  the  snow ; 
When  round  the  lonely  cottage 

Roars  loud  the  tempest's  din, 
And  the  good  logs  of  Algidus 

Roar  louder  yet  within  ; 


When  the  oldest  cask  is  opened. 

And  the  largest  lamp  is  lit  : 
When  the  chestnuts  glow  in  the  embers, 

And  the  kid  turns  on  the  spit ; 
When  young  and  old  in  circle 

Around  the  firebrands  close  ; 
When  the  girls  are  weaving  baskets, 

And  the  lads  are  shaping  bows  ; 


When  the  goodman  mends  his  armor, 

And  trims  his  helmet's  plume  ; 
When  the  goodwife's  shuttle  merrily 

Goes  flashing  through  the  loom  ; 
With  weeping  and  with  laughter 

Still  is  the  story  told, 
How  well  Horatius  kept  the  bridge 

In  the  brave  days  of  old. 


454  HAND-BOOK  OF  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 


THE   BATTLE   OF   IVRY. 

Now  glory  to  the  Lord  of  Hosts,  from  whom  all  glories  are  ! 
And  glory  to  our  sovereign  liege,  King  Henry  of  Navarre  ! 
Now  let  there  be  the  merry  sound  of  music  and  of  dance, 
Through  thy  cornfields  green  and  sunny  vines,  O  pleasant  land  of 

France  ! 
And  thou,  Rochelle,  our  own  Rochelle,  proud  city  of  the  waters, 
Again  let  rapture  light  the  eyes  of  all  thy  mourning  daughters. 
As  thou  wert  constant  in  our  ills,  be  joyous  in  our  joy, 
For  cold,  and  stiff,  and  still  are  they  who  wrought  thy  walls  annoy. 
Hurrah  !  hurrah  !  a  single  field  hath  turned  the  chance  of  war, 
Hurrah  !  hurrah  !  for  Ivry,  and  King  Henry  of  Navarre. 

O  !  how  our  hearts  were  beating,  when,  at  the  dawn  of  day, 

We  saw  the  army  of  the  League  drawn  out  in  long  array ; 

With  all  its  priest-led  citizens,  and  all  its  rebel  peers. 

And  Appenzel's  stout  infantry,  and  Egmont's  Flemish  spears ! 

There  rode  the  brood  of  false  Lorraine,  the  curses  of  our  land ; 

And  dark  Mayenne  was  in  the  midst,  a  truncheon-  in  his  hand  ; 

And,  as  we  looked  on  them,  we  thought  of  Seine's  empurpled  flood. 

And  good  Coligni's  hoary  hair  all  dabbled  with  his  blood  ; 

And  we  cried  unto  the  living  God,  who  rules  the  fate  of  war, 

To  fight  for  his  own  holy  name,  and  Henry  of  Navarre. 

The  king  is  come  to  marshal  us,  in  all  his  armor  drest ; 

And  he  has  bound  a  snow-white  plume  upon  his  gallant  crest. 

He  looked  upon  his  people,  and  a  tear  was  in  his  eye  ; 

He  looked  upon  the  traitors,  and  his  glance  was  stern  and  high. 

Right  graciously  he  smiled  on  us,  as  rolled  from  wing  to  wing, 

Down  all  our  line,  in  deafening  shout,  "  God  save  our  lord  the  king !  " 

"  And  if  my  standard-bearer  fall,  as  fall  full  well  he  may,  — 

For  never  saw  I  promise  yet  of  such  a  bloody  fray,  — 

Press  where  ye  see  my  white  plume  shine,  amidst  the  ranks  of  war, 

And  be  your  oriflamme,  to-day,  the  helmet  of  Navarre." 

Hurrah  !  the  foes  are  moving  !     Hark  to  the  mingled  din 
Of  fife,  and  steed,  and  trump,  and  drum,  and  roaring  culverin. 
The  fiery  Duke  is  pricking  fast  across  St.  Andre's  plain. 
With  all  the  hireling  chivalry  of  Guelders  and  Almayne. 
Now  by  the  lips  of  those  ye  love,  fair  gentlemen  of  France, 


LORD   MACAULAY.  «45S 

Charge  for  the  golden  lilies  now  —  upon  them  with  the  lance  ! 
A  thousand  spurs  are  striking  deep,  a  thousand  spears  in  rest, 
A  thousand  knights  are  pressing  close  behind  the  snow-white  crest ; 
And  in  they  burst,  and  on  they  rushed,  while,  like  a  guiding  star. 
Amidst  the  thickest  carnage  blazed  the  helmet  of  Navarre. 

Now,  God  be  praised,  the  day  is  ours  !  Mayenne  hath  turned  his  rein. 
D'Aumale  hath  cried  for  quarter.     The  Flemish  Count  is  slain. 
Their  ranks  are  breaking  like  thin  clouds  before  a  Biscay  gale  ; 
The  field  is  heaped  with  bleeding  steeds,  and  flags,  and  cloven  mail. 
And  then  we  thought  on  vengeance,  and  all  along  our  van, 
"  Remember  St.  Bartholomew,"  was  passed  from  man  to  man  ; 
But  out  spake  gentle  Henry  then,  "  No  Frenchman  is  my  foe : 
Down,  down  with  every  foreigner,  but  let  your  brethren  go." 
O  !  was  there  ever  such  a  knight,  in  friendship  or  in  war, 
As  our  sovereign  lord.  King  Henry,  the  soldier  of  Navarre  ! 

Right  well  fought  all  the  Frenchmen  who  fought  for  France  to-day ; 

And  many  a  lordly  banner  God  gave  them  for  a  prey. 

But  we  of  the  religion  have  borne  us  best  in  fight ; 

And  *he  good  Lord  of  Rosny  hath  ta'en  the  cornet  white. 

Our  own  true  Maximilian  the  cornet  white  hath  ta'en, 

The  cornet  white  with  crosses  blacky  the  flag  of  false  Lorraine. 

Up  with  it  high  ;  unfurl  it  wide  ;  that  all  the  host  may  know 

How  God  hath  humbled  the  proud  house  which  wrought  his.  church 

such  woe. 
Then  on  the  ground,  while  trumpets  sound  their  loudest  points  of 

war, 
Fling  the  red  shreds,  a  foot-cloth  meet  for  Henry  of  Navarre. 

Ho  !  maidens  of  Vienna  !     Ho  !  matrons  of  Lucerne  ! 

Weep,  weep,  and  rend  your  hair  for  those  who  never  shall  return. 

Ho  !  Philip,  send,  for  charity,  thy  Mexican  pistoles. 

That  Antwerp  monks  niay  sing  a  mass  for  thy  poor  spearmen's  souls  ! 

Ho  !  gallant  nobles  of  the  League,  look  that  your  arms  be  bright ; 

Ho  !  burghers  of  St.  Genevieve,  keep  watch  and  ward  to-night. 

For  our  God  hath  crushed  the  tyrant,  our  God  hath  raised  the  slave. 

And  mocked  the  counsel  of  the  wise,  and  the  valor  of  the  brave. 

Then  glory  to  his  holy  name,  from  whom  all  glories  are  ; 

And  glory  to  our  sovereign  lord.  King  Henry  of  Navarre. 


4S^  HAND-IJOOK   OF  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 


HARRIET   MARTINEAU. 

Harriet  Martineau  was  bom  at  Norwich  in  1802.  She  was  nearly  deaf  from  early  childhood, 
and  found  her  amusement  in  literary  studies,  and  during  her  long  life  she  has  been  a  most 
industrious  author.  Her  first  productions  were  of  a  religious  character.  She  next  pub- 
lished a  series  of  popular  tales  designed  to  illustrate  the  principles  of  political  economy  ;  in 
these,  as  in  many  of  her  works,  she  has  shown  a  strong  interest  in  the  welfare  of  the  work- 
ing class.  She  visited  the  United  States  in  1834,  and  on  her  return  gave  to  the  world 
Society  in  America.  Next  appeared  Deerbrook,  an  admirable  novel,  and  The  Hour  and 
the  Man,  being  an  account  of  Toussaint  L'Ouverture.  In  1846  she  visited  Egypt  and  the 
Holy  Land,  and  gave  a  graphic  description  of  her  tour  in  Eastern  Life.  Among  her 
other  labors  has  been  a  summary  of  Auguste  Comte's  Positive  Philosophy ;  in  which,  as 
well  as  in  a  volume  of  her  letters  upon  the  subject,  there  is  an  avowal  of  doctrines  that  may 
be  fairly  termed  atheistic.  A  collection  of  her  writings  in  order,  from  the  fervent  piety  of  her 
early  years  to  the  cold  and  cheerless  philosophy  of  the  present,  would  be  an  instructive 
lesson  in  psychology.  The  last  work  by  Miss  Martineau  is  entitled  Biographical  Sketches, 
being  a  series  of  obituary  notices  written  for  the  London  press.  No  collection  of  her  works 
has  been  made,  and  many  of  them  are  out  of  print.  She  lives  near  Ambleside,  in  the  Lake 
district. 

THE   NILE   AND   THE   DESERT. 
[From  Eastern  Life.] 

DiODORUS  SICULUS  tclls  US  that  Antae  (supposed  by  Wilkinson 
to  be  probably  the  same  with  Ombte)  had  charge  of  the  Ethiopian 
and  Libyan  parts  of  the  kingdom  of  Osiris,  while  Osiris  went 
abroad  through  the  earth  to  benefit  it  with  his  gifts.  Antae  seems 
not  to  have  been  always  in  friendship  with  the  house  of  Osiris,  and  was 
killed  here  by  Hercules  on  behalf  of  Osiris  ;  but  he  was  worshipped 
here,  near  the  spot  where  the  wife  and  son  of  Osiris  avenged  his 
death  on  his  murderer,  Typho.  The  temple  sacred  to  Antae  (or,  in 
the  Greek,  Antaeus),  parts  of  which  were  standing  thirty  years  ago, 
was  a  rather  modern  aflfair,  having  been  built  about  the  time  of  the 
destruction  of  the  Colossus  of  Rhodes.  Ptolemy  Philopater  built  it ; 
and  he  was  the  Egyptian  monarch  who  sent  presents  and  sympathy 
to  Rhodes  on  occasion  of  the  fall  of  the  Colossus.  Now,  nothing 
remains  of  the  monuments  but  some  heaps  of  stones  ;  nothing  what- 
ever that  can  be  seen  from  the  river.  The  traveller  can  only  look 
upon  hamlets  of  modern  Arabs,  and  speculate  on  the  probability  of 
vast  "  treasures  hid  in  the  sand." 

If  I  were  to  have  the  choice  of  a  fairy  gift,  it  should  be  like  none 
of  the  many  things  I  fixed  upon  in  my  childhood,  in  readiness  for 
such  an  occasion.  It  should  be  for  a  great  winnowing  fan,  such  as 
would,  without  injury  to  human  eyes  and  lungs,  blow  away  the  sand 
which  buries  the  monuments  of  Egypt.     What  a  scene  would  be  laid 


HARRIET   MARTINEAU.  457 

open  then  !  One  statue  and  sarcophagus,  brought  from  Memphis, 
was  buried  one  hundred  and  thirty  feet  below  the  mound  surface. 
Who  knows  but  that  the  greater  part  of  old  Memphis,  and  of  other 
glorious  cities,  lies  almost  unharmed  under  the  sand  ?  Who  can 
say  what  armies  of  sphinxes,  what  sentinels  of  Colossi,  might  start 
up  on  the  banks  of  the  river,  or  come  forth  from  the  hill-sides  of  the 
interior,  when  the  cloud  of  sand  had  been  wafted  away  ?  The  ruins 
which  we  now  go  to  study  might  then  appear  occupying  only 
eminences,  while  below  might  be  ranges  of  pylons,  miles  of  colon- 
nade, temples  intact,  and  gods  and  goddesses  safe  in  their  sanctu- 
aries. What  quays  along  the  Nile,  and  the  banks  of  forgotten 
canals  !  What  terraces,  and  flights  of  wide,  shallow  steps  !  What 
architectural  stages  might  we  not  find  for  a  thousand  miles  along  the 
river,  where  now  the  orange  sands  lie  so  smooth  and  light  as  to 
show  the  track  —  the  clear  footprint  —  of  every  beetle  that  comes 
out  to  bask  in  the  sun !  But  it  is  better  as  it  is.  If  we  could  once 
blow  away  the  sand,  to  discover  the  temples  and  palaces,  we  should 
next  want  to  rend  the  rocks,  to  lay  open  the  tombs  ;  and  heaven 
knows  what  this  would  set  us  wishing  further.  It  is  .best  as  it  is  ; 
for  the  time  has  not  come  for  the  full  discovery  of  the  treasures  of 
Egypt.  It  is  best  as  it  is.  The  sand  is  a  fine  means  of  preserva- 
tion ;  and  the  present  inhabitants  perpetuate  enough  of  the  names 
to  serve  for  guidance  when  the  day  for  exploration  shall  come.  The 
minds  of  scholars  are  preparing  for  an  inteUigent  interpretation  of 
what  a  future  age  may  find  ;  and  science,  chemical  and  mechanical, 
will  probably  supply  such  means  hereafter  as  we  have  not  now,  for 
treating  and  removing  the  sand,  when  its  conservative  ofiice  has 
lasted  long  enough.  We  are  not  worthy  yet  of  this  great  unveiling  ; 
and  the  inhabitants  are  not,  from  their  ignorance,  trustworthy  as 
spectators.  It  is  better  that  the  world  should  wait,  if  only  care  be 
taken  that  the  memory  of  no  site  now  known  be  lost.  True  as  I 
feel  it  to  be  that  we  had  better  wait,  I  was  forever  catching  myself 
in  a  speculation,  not  only  on  the  buried  treasures  of  the  mounds  on 
shore,  but  on  means  for  managing  this  obstinate  sand. 

And  yet,  vexatious  as  is  its  presence  in  many  a  daily  scene,  this 
sand  has  a  bright  side  to  its  character,  like  everything  else.  Besides 
its  great  office  of  preserving  unharmed  for  a  future  age  the  records 
of  the  oldest  times  known  to  man,  the  sand  of  the  desert  has,  for 
many  thousand  years,  shared  equally  with  the  Nile  the  function  of 
determining  the  character  and  the  destiny  of  a  whole  people,  who 
have  again  operated  powerfully  on  the  characters   and  destiny  of 


458  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

Other  nations.  Everywhere  the  minds  and  fortunes  of  human  races 
are  mainly  determined  by  the  characteristics  of  the  soil  on  which 
they  are  born  and  reared.  In  our  own  small  island,  there  are,  as  it 
were,  three  tribes  of  people,  whose  lives  are  much  determined  still, 
in  spite  of  all  modern  facilities  for  intercourse,  by  the  circumstance 
of  their  being  born  and  reared  on  the  mineral  strip  to  the  west  — 
the  pastoral  strip  in  the  middle  —  or  the  eastern  agricultural  portion. 
The  Welsh  and  Cornwall  miners  are  as  widely  different  from  the 
Lincolnshire  or  Kentish  husbandmen,  and  the  Leicestershire  herds- 
men, as  Englishmen  can  be  from  Englishmen.  Not  only  their 
physical  training  is  different ;  their  intellectual  faculties  are  dif- 
ferently exercised,  and  their  moral  ideas  and  habits  vary  accord- 
ingly. So  it  is  in  every  country  where  there  is  a  diversity  of  geo- 
logical formation ;  and  nowhere  is  the  original  constitution  of  their 
earth  so  strikingly  influential  on  the  character  of  its  inhabitants  as 
in  Egypt.  There,  everything  depends  —  life  itself,  and  all  that  it 
includes  —  on  the  state  of  the  unintermitting  conflict  between  the 
Nile  and  the  Desert.  The  world  has  seen  many  struggles,  but  no 
other  so  pertinacious,  so  perdurable,  and  so  sublime  as  the  conflict 
of  these  two  great  powers.  The  Nile,  ever  young  because  per- 
petually renewing  its  youth,  appears  to  the  inexperienced  eye  to 
have  no  chance,  with  its  stripling  force,  against  the  great  old 
Goliath,  the  Desert,  whose  might  has  never  relapsed,  from  the 
earliest  days  till  now  ;  but  the  giant  has  not  conquered  yet.  Now 
and  then  he  has  prevailed  for  a  season,  and  the  tremblers,  whose 
destiny  hung  on  the  event,  have  cried  out  that  all  was  over ;  but  he 
has  once  more  been  driven  back,  and  Nilus  has  risen  up  again,  to 
do  what  we  see  him  doing  in  the  sculptures  —  bind  up  his  water 
plants  about  the  throne  of  Eg}^pt. 

From  the  beginning,  the  people  of  Egypt  have  had  everything  to 
hope  from  the  river,  nothing  from  the  desert ;  much  to  fear  from  the 
desert,  and  little  from  the  river.  What  their  fear  may  reasonably  be, 
any  one  may  know  who  looks  upon  a  hillocky  expanse  of  sand, 
where  the  little  jerboa  burrows,  and  the  hyena  prowls  at  night. 
Under  these  hillocks  lie  temples  and  palaces,  and  under  the  level 
sands  a  whole  city.  The  enemy  has  come  in  from  behind,  and 
stifled  and  buried  it.  What  is  the  hope  of  the  people  from  the  river, 
any  one  may  witness,  who,  at  the  regular  season,  sees  the  people 
grouped  on  the  eminences,  watching  the  advancing  waters,  and 
listening  for  the  voice  of  the  crier,  or  the  boom  of  the  cannon,  which 


ALEXANDER   WILLIAM   KINGLAKE.  459 

IS  to  tell  the  prospect  or  event  of  the  inundation  of  the  year.  Who 
can  estin^ate  the  effect  on  a  nation's  mind  and  character,  of  a 
perpetual  vigilance  against  the  Desert  (see  what  it  is  in  Holland  of  a 
similar  vigilance  against  the  sea),  and  of  an  annual  mood  of  hope  in 
regard  to  the  Nile  ?  Who  cannot  see  what  a  stimulating  and 
enlivening  influence  this  periodical  anxiety  and  relief  must  exercise 
on  the  character  of  a  nation  ? 


ALEXANDER   WILLIAM    KINGLAKE. 

Alexander  William  Kinglake  was  bom  in  1802,  and  was  educated  at  Eton  and  at  Cam- 
bridge. He  studied  law  in  Lincoln's  Inn,  was  called  to  the  bar  in  1827,  and  became  a 
successful  practitioner.  His  first  work  was  a  volume  of  letters  from  the  East,  entitled 
Eothen,^  containing  the  most  brilliant  and  entertaining  pictures  of  Oriental  life.  He  next 
published  a  History  of  the  War  in  the  Crimea,  which  is  remarkable  for  its  sharp  arraign- 
ment of  the  Emperor  Louis  Napoleon  as  the  author  of  the  needless  war,  and  for  the  scathing 
account  of  his  treachery  and  brutality  in  the  cotip  d'etat.  The  fiercest  enemy  of  the  now 
fallen  Emperor  could  hardly  frame  a  more  terrible  indictment  than  is  contained  in  this 
powerful  book.     Mr,  Kinglake  was  elected  to  Parliament  in  1857. 

INVASION   OF   THE   CRIMEA.  —  CAUSE   OF   THE   WAR. 

The  mystery  of  holy  shrines  lies  deep  in  human  nature.  For, 
however  the  more  spiritual  minds  may  be  able  to  rise  and  soar,  the 
common  man  during  his  mortal  career  is  tethered  to  the  globe  that 
is  his  appointed  dwelling-place  ;  and  the  more  his  affections  are 
pure  and  holy,  the  more  they  seem  to  blend  with  the  outward  and 
visible  world.  For  men  strongly  moved  by  the  Christian  faith  it  was 
natural  to  yearn  after  the  scenes  of  the  gospel  narrative.  In  old 
times  this  feeling  had  strength  to  impel  the  chivalry  of  Europe  to 
undertake  the  conquest  of  a  barren  and  distant  land  ;  and  although 
in  later  days  the  aggregate  faith  of  the  nations  grew  chill,  and 
Christendom  no  longer  claimed  with  the  sword,  still  there  were 
always  many  who  were  willing  to  brave  toil  and  danger  for  the  sake 
of  attaining  to  the  actual  and  visible  Sion.  These  venturesome  men 
came  to  be  called  Pelerins,  or  Pilgrims.  At  first,  as  it  would  seem, 
they  were  impelled  by  deep  feeling  acting  upon  bold  and  resolute 
natures.  Holding  close  to  the  faith  that  the  Son  of  God,  being  also 
in  mystic  sense  the  great  God  himself,  had  for  our  sakes  and  for  our 
salvation  become  a  babe,  growing  up  to  be  an  anxious  and  suffering 
man,  and  submitting  to  be  cruelly  tortured  and  killed  by  the  hands 

1  The  East,  or,  The  Early  Dawn. 


460  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

of  his  own  creaiures,  they  longed  to  touch  and  to  kiss  the  spots 
which  were  believed  to  be  the  silent  witnesses  of  his  life  upon  earth, 
and  of  his  cross  and  passion.  And,  since  also  these  men  were  of 
the  churches  which  sanctioned  the  adoration  of  the  Virgin,  they 
were  taught  aHke,  by  their  conception  of  duty  and  by  nature's  low 
whispering  voice,  to  touch  and  to  kiss  the  holy  ground  where  Mary, 
pure  and  youn^,  was  ordained  to  become  the  link  between  God  and 
the  race  of  fallen  man.  And  because  the  rocky  land  abounded  in 
recesses  and  caves  yielding  shelter  against  sun  and  rain,  it  was 
possible  for  the  churches  to  declare,  and  very  easy  for  trustful  men 
to  believe,  that  a  hollow  in  a  rock  at  Bethlehem  was  the  manger 
which  held  the  infant  Redeemer,  and  that  a  grotto  at  Nazareth  was 
the  very  home  of  the  blessed  Virgin.  Priests  fastened  upon  this 
sentiment,  and  although  in  its  beginning  their  design  was  not  sordid, 
they  found  themselves  driven  by  the  course  of  events  to  convert  the 
alluring  mystery  of  the  holy  places  into  a  source  of  revenue.  But, 
since  it  happened  that,  because  of  the  manner  in  which  the  toll  was 
levied,  every  one  of  the  holy  places  was  a  distinct  source  of  revenue, 
the  prerogative  of  the  Turks  as  owners  of  the  ground  was  necessari- 
ly brought  into  play,  and  it  rested  with  them  to  determine  which  of 
the  rival  churches  should  have  the  control  and  usufruct  of  every 
holy  shrine.  In  the  contest  now  about  to  be  raised  between  France 
and  Russia,  it  would  be  wrong  to  suppose  that,  so  far  as  concerned 
strength  of  motive  and  sincerity  of  purpose,  there  was  any  approach 
to  an  equality  between  the  contending  governments.  In  the  Greek 
church  the  right  of  pilgrimage  is  held  to  be  of  such  deep  import 
that  if  a  family  can  command  the  means  of  journeying  to  Palestine 
even  from  the  far  distant  provinces  of  Russia,  they  can  scarcely 
remain  in  the  sensation  of  being  truly  devout  without  undertaking 
the  holy  enterprise  ;  and  to  this  end  the  fruits  of  parsimony  and 
labor  enduring  through  all  the  best  years  of  manhood  are  joyfully 
devoted.  The  compassing  of  vast  distances  with  the  narrow  means 
at  the  command  of  a  peasant  is  not  achieved  without  suffering  so 
great  as  to  destroy  many  lives.  This  danger  does  not  deter  the 
brave,  pious  people  of  the  north.  As  the  reward  of  their  sacrifices, 
their  priests,  speaking  boldly  in  the  name  of  Heaven,  promise  them 
ineffable  blessings.  The  advantages  held  out  are  not  understood  to 
be  dependent  upon  the  volition  and  motive  of  the  pilgrim,  for  they 
hold  good,  as  baptism  does,  for  children  of  tender  years.  Of  course 
every  man  who  thus  came  from  afar  to  the  Church  of  the  Holy 
Sepulchre  was  the  representative  of  many  more  who  would  do  the 


ALEXANDER   WILLIAM    KINGLAKE.  46 1 

like  if  they  could.  When  the  Emperor  of  Russia  sought  to  gain  or 
to  keep  for  his  church  the  holy  shrines  of  Palestine,  he  spoke  on 
behalf  of  fifty  millions  of  brave,  pious,  devoted  subjects,  of  whom 
thousands  for  the  sake  of  the  cause  would  joyfully  risk  their  Hves. 
From  the  serf  in  his  hut  even  up  to  the  great  Czar  himself,  the  faith 
professed  was  the  faith  really  glowing  in  the  heart,  and  violently 
swaying  the  will.  It  was  the  part  of  wise  statesmen  to  treat  with 
much  deference  an  honest  and  pious  desire  which  was  rooted  thus 
deep  in  the  bosom  of  the  Russian  people.  On  the  other  hand,  the 
Latin  church  seems  not  to  have  inculcated  pilgrimage  so  earnestly 
as  its  Eastern  rival ;  and  if  it  did,  it  obtained  but  slight  compliance 
with  its  precept,  for  whilst  the  Greek  pilgrim  ships  poured  out  upon 
the  landing-place  of  Jaifa  the  multitudes  of  those  who  had  survived 
the  misery  and  the  trials  of  the  journey,  the  closest  likeness  of  a 
pilgrim  which  the  Latin  church  could  supply  was  often  a  mere 
French  tourist,  with  a  journal  and  a  .theory,  and  a  plan  of  writing 
a  book. 

Stated  in  bare  terms,  the  question  was  whether,  for  the  purpose 
of  passing  through  the  building  into  their  grotto,  the  Latin  monks 
should  have  the  key  of  the  chief  door  of  the  Church  of  Bethlehem, 
and  also  one  of  the  keys  of  each  of  the  two  doors  of  the  sacred 
manger,  and  whether  they  should  be  at  liberty  to  place  in  the 
sanctuary  of  the  Nativity  a  silver  star  adorned  with  the  arms  of 
France.  The  Latins  also  claimed  a  privilege  of  worshipping  once  a 
year  at  the  shrine  of  the  Blessed  Mary  in  the  Church  of  Gethsemane, 
and  they  went  on  to  assert  their  right  to  have  "  a  cupboard  and  a 
lamp  in  the  tomb  of  the  Virgin  ; "  but  in  this  last  pretension  they 
were  not  well  supported  by  France,  and  virtually,  it  was  their  claim 
to  have  a  key  of  the  great  door  of  the  Church  of  Bethlehem,  instead 
of  being  put  off  with  a  key  of  the  lesser  door,  which  long  remained 
insoluble,  and  had  to  be  decided  by  the  advance  of  armies  and  the 
threatening  movements  of  fleets.  The  pressure  of  France  was 
applied  with  increasing  force,  and  it  produced  its  effect.  In  the 
month  of  December,  1852,  the  silver  star  was  brought  with  much 
pomp  from  the  coast.  Some  of  the  Moslem  Effendis  went  down  to 
Jaffa  to  escort  it,  and  others  rode  out  a  good  way  on  the  road  that 
they  might  bring  it  into  Jerusalem  with  triumph  ;  and  on  Wednes- 
day, the  22d  of  the  same  month,  the  Latin  patriarch,  with  joy  and 
with  a  great  ceremony,  replaced  the  glittering  star  in  the  sanctuary 
of  Bethlehem,  and  at  the  same  time  the  key  of  the  great  door  of  the 
church,  together  with  the  keys  of  the  sacred  manger,  was  handed 


462  HAND-BOOK  OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

over  to  the  Latins.  Is  it  true  that  for  this  cause  great  armies  were 
gathering,  and  that  for  the  sake  of  the  key  and  the  silver  star  the 
peace  of  the  nations  was  brought  into  danger  1  Had  the  world  grown 
young  once  more  .'*  The  strife  of  the  churches  was  no  fable,  but 
after  all,  though  near  and  distinct,  it  was  only  the  lesser  truth.  A 
crowd  of  monks  with  bare  foreheads  stood  quarrelling  for  a  key  at 
the  sunny  gates  of  a  church  in  Palestine,  but  beyond  and  above, 
towering  high  in  the  misty  north,  men  saw  the  ambition  of  the  Czars. 


THE   DESERT. 
[From  Eothen.] 

The  manner  of  my  daily  march  was  this.  At  about  an  houi 
before  dawn,  I  rose,  and  made  the  most  of  about  a  pint  of  water 
which  I  allowed  myself  for  washing.  Then  I  breakfasted  upon  tea 
and  bread.  As  soon  as  the  beasts  were  loaded,  I  mounted  my 
camel,  and  pressed  forward ;  my  poor  Arabs,  being  on  foot,  would 
sometimes  moan  with  fatigue,  and  pray  for  rest,  but  I  was  anxious 
to  enable  them  to  perform  their  contract  for  bringing  me  to  Cairo 
within  the  stipulated  time,  and  I  did  not  therefore  allow  a  halt  until 
the  evening  came.  About  midday,  or  soon  after,  Mysseri  used  to 
bring  up  his  camel  alongside  of  mine,  and  supply  me  with  a  piece 
of  bread  softened  in  water  (for  it  was  dried  hard  like  board),  and 
also  (as  long  as  it  lasted)  with  a  piece  of  tongue  ;  after  this  there 
came  into  my  hand  (how  well  I  remember  it !)  the  little  tin  cup  half 
filled  with  wine  and  water. 

Time  labors  on  —  your  skin  glows,  and  your  shoulders  ache, 
your  Arabs  moan,  your  camels  sigh,  but  conquering  Time  marches 
on,  and  by  and  by  the  descending  sun  has  compassed  the  heaven, 
and  now  softly  touches  your  right  arm,  and  throws  your  lank 
shadow  over  the  sand,  right  along  on  the  way  for  Persia ;  then 
again  you  look  upon  his  face,  for  his  power  is  all  veiled  in  his  beauty, 
and  the  redness  of  flames  has  become  the  redness  of  roses  —  the 
fair,  wavy  cloud  that  fled  in  the  morning  now  comes  to  his  sight 
once  more  —  comes  blushing,  yet  still  comes  on  —  comes  burning 
with  blushes,  yet  hastens,  and  clings  to  his  side. 

Then  arrives  your  time  for  resting.  The  world  about  you  is  all 
your  own,  and  there,  where  you  will,  you  pitch  your  solitary  tent ; 
there  is  no  living  thing  to  dispute  your  choice.     When  at  last  the 


ALEXANDER   WILLIAM   KINGLAKE.  463 

spot  had  been  fixed  upon,  and  we  came  to  a  halt,  one  of  the  Arabs 
would  touch  the  chest  of  my  camel,  and  utter  at  the  same  time  a 
peculiar  gurgling  sound  ;  the  beast  instantly  understood,  and  obeyed 
the  sign,  and  slowly  sunk  under  me  till  she  brought  her  body  to  a 
level  with  the  ground  ;  then  gladly  enough  I  alighted  ;  the  rest  of 
the  camels  were  unloaded,  and  turned  loose  to  browse  upon  the 
shrubs  of  the  Desert,  where  shrubs  there  were,  or  where  these 
failed,  to  wait  for  the  small  quantity  of  food  which  was  allowed  them 
out  of  our  stores. 

At  the  beginning  of  my  journey,  the  night  breeze  blew  coldly ; 
when  that  happened,  the  dry  sand  was  heaped  up  outside  round  the 
skirts  of  the  tent,  and  so  the  Wind,  that  everywhere  else  could  sweep 
as  he  listed  along  those  dreary  plains,  was  forced  to  turn  aside  in  his 
course,  and  make  way  as  he  ought,  for  the  Englishman.  Then 
within  my  tent  there  were  heaps  of  luxuries  —  dining-rooms, 
dressing-rooms,  libraries,  bed-rooms,  drawing-rooms,  oratories,  all 
crowded  into  the  space  of  a  hearth  rug.  The  first  night,  I  remem- 
ber, with  my  books  and  maps  about  me,  I  wanted  light,  —  they 
brought  me  a  taper,  and  immediately  from  out  of  the  silent  Desert 
there  rushed  in  a  flood  of  life,  unseen  before.  Monsters  of  moths 
of  all  shapes  and  hues,  that  never  before,  perhaps,  had  looked  upon 
the  shining  of  a  flame,  now  madly  thronged  into  my  tent,  and  dashed 
through  the  fire  of  the  candle  till  they  fairly  extinguished  it  with 
their  burning  limbs.  Those  who  had  failed  in  attaining  this  martyr- 
dom suddenly  became  serious,  and  clung  despondingly  to  the 
canvas. 

By  and  by  there  was  brought  to  me  the  fragrant  tea,  and  big 
masses  of  scorched  and  scorching  toast,  that  minded  me  of  old 
Eton  days,  and  the  butter  that  had  come  all  the  way  to  me  in 
this  desert  of  Asia,  from  out  of  that  poor,  dear,  starving  Ireland. 
I  feasted  like  a  king,  —  like  four  kings,  —  like  a  boy  in  the  fourth 
form. 

When  the  cold,  sullen  morning  dawned,  and  my  people  began  to 
load  the  camels,  I  always  felt  loath  to  give  back  to  the  waste  this 
little  spot  of  ground  that  had  glowed  for  a  while  with  the  cheerful- 
ness of  a  human  dwelHng.  One  by  one  the  cloaks,  the  saddles,  the 
baggage,  the  hundred  things  that  strewed  the  ground,  and  made  it 
look  so  familiar  —  all  these  were  taken  away,  and  laid  upon  the 
camels.  A  speck  in  the  broad  tracts  of  Asia  remained  still  im- 
pressed with  the  mark  of  patent  portmanteaus,  and  the  heels  of 


464  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

London  boots  ;  the  embers  of  the  fire  lay  black  and  cold  upon  the 
sand,  and  these  were  the  signs  we  left. 

You,  —  you  love  sailing,  —  in  returning  from  a  cruise  to  the  Eng- 
lish coast,  you  see  often  enough  a  fisherman's  humble  boat  far  away 
from  all  shores,  with  an  ugly  black  sky  above,  and  an  angry  sea 
beneath, — you  watch  the  grisly  old  man  at  the  helm,  carrying  his 
craft  with  strange  skill  through  the  turmoil  of  waters,  and  the  boy, 
supple-limbed,  yet  weather-worn  already,  and  with  steady  eyes  that 
look  through  the  blast, — you  see  him  understanding  command- 
ments from  the  jerk  of  his  father's  white  eyebrow,  —  now  belaying, 
and  now  letting  go,  —  now  crouching  himself  down  into  mere 
ballast,  or  baling  out  Death  with  a  pipkin.  Stale  enough  is  the 
sight,  and  yet  when  I  see  it  I  always  stare  anew,  and  with  a  kind  of 
Titanic  exultation,  because  that  a  poor  boat,  with  the  brain  of  a  man 
and  the  hands  of  a  boy  on  board,  can  match  herself  so  bravely 
against  black  Heaven  and  Ocean  ;  well,  so  when  you  have  travelled 
for  days  and  days  over  an  Eastern  desert,  without  meeting  the 
likeness  of  a  human  being,  and  then  at  last  see  an  English  shooting- 
jacket  and  his  servant  come  listlessly  slouching  along  from  out  the 
forward  horizon,  you  stare  at  the  wide  unproportion  between  this 
slender  company  and  the  boundless  plains  of  sand  through  which 
they  are  keening  their  way. 

Once,  during  this  passage,  my  Arabs  lost  their  way  among  the 
hills  of  loose  sand  that  surrounded  us,  but  after  a  while  we  were 
lucky  enough  to  recover  our  right  line  of  march.  The  same  day  we 
fell  in  with  a  Sheik,  the  head  of  a  family,  that  actually  dwells  at  no 
great  riistance  from  this  part  of  the  desert  during  nine  months  of  the 
ye?r.  The  man  carried  a  match-lock,  of  which  he  was  very  proud  ; 
we  stopped  and  sat  down,  and  rested  a  while  for  the  sake  of  a  little 
talk ;  there  was  much  that  I  should  have  liked  to  ask  this  man,  but 
he  could  not  understand  Dthemetri's  language,  and  the  process  of 
getting  at  his  knowledge  by  double  interpretation  through  my  Arabs 
was  unsatisfactory.  I  discovered,  however  (and  my  Arabs  knew  of 
that  fact),  that  this  man  and  his  family  lived  habitually,  for  nine 
months  of  the  year,  without  touching  or  seeing  either  bread  or 
water.  The  stunted  shrub  growing  at  intervals  through  the  sand  in 
this  part  of  the  desert,  is  fed  by  the  dews  which  fall  at  night,  and 
enables  the  camel  mares  to  yield  a  little  milk,  which  furnishes  the 
sole  food  and  drink  of  their  owner  and  his  people.    During  the  other 


ALEXANDER   WILLIAM    KINGLAKE.  465 

three  months  (the  hottest  of  the  months,  I  suppose)  even  this 
resource  fails,  and  then  the  Sheik  and  his  people  are  forced  to  pass 
into  another  district.  You  would  ask  me  why  the  man  should  not 
remain  always  in  that  district  which  supplies  him  with  water  during 
three  months  of  the  year,  but  I  don't  know  enough  of  Arab  politics 
to  answer  the  question.  The  Sheik  was  not  a  good  specimen  of 
the  effect  produced  by  the  diet  to  which  he  is  subjected ;  he  was 
very  small,  very  spare,  and  sadly  shrivelled  —  a  poor,  over-roasted 
snipe,  a  mere  cinder  of  a  man.  I  made  him  sit  down  by  my  side, 
and  gave  him  a  piece  of  bread  and  a  cup  of  water  from  out  of  my 
goat-skins.  This  was  not  very  tempting  drink  to  look  at,  for  it  had 
become  turbid,  and  was  deeply  reddened  by  some- coloring  matter 
contained  in  the  skins,  but  it  kept  its  sweetness  and  tasted  like  a 
strong  decoction  of  Russia  leather.  The  Sheik  sipped  this,  drop  by 
drop,  with  ineiTable  relish,  and  rolled  his  eyes  solemnly  round 
between  every  draught,  as  though  the  drink  were  the  drink  of  the 
Prophet,  and  had  come  from  the  seventh  heaven. 

About  this  part  of  my  journey,  I  saw  the  likeness  of  a  fresh  water 
lake.  I  saw,  as  it  seemed,  a  broad  sheet  of  calm  water  that  stretched 
far  and  fair  towards  the  south  —  stretching  deep  into  winding 
creeks,  and  hemmed  in  by  jutting  promontories,  and  shelving  smooth 
off  towards  the  shallow  side  ;  on  its  bosom  the  reflected  fire  of  the 
sun  lay  playing,  and  seeming  to  float  upon  waters  deep  and  still. 

Though  I  knew  of  the  cheat,  it  was  not  till  the  spongy  foot  of  my 
camel  had  almost  trodden  in  the  seeming  waters,  that  I  could  un- 
deceive my  eyes,  for  the  shore  line  was  quite  true  and  natural.  I 
soon  saw  the  cause  of  the  phantasm.  A  sheet  of  water  heavily 
impregnated  with  salts  had  filled  this  great  hollow,  and  when  dried 
up  by  evaporation  had  left  a  white  saline  deposit  that  exactly  marked 
the  space  which  the  waters  had  covered,  and  thus  sketched  a  true 
shore-hne.  The  minute  crystals  of  the  salt  sparkled  in  the  sun,  and 
so  looked  like  the  face  of  a  lake  that  is  calm  and  smooth. 

After  the  fifth  day  of  my  journey,  I  no  longer  travelled  over  shift- 
ing hills,  but  came  upon  a  dead  level  —  a  dead  level  bed  of  sand, 
quite  hard,  and  studded  with  small  shining  pebbles. 

The  heat  grew  fierce  ;  -there  was  no  valley  nor  hollow,  no  hill,  no 
mound,  no  shadow  of  hill  nor  of  mound,  by  which  I  could  mark  the 
way  I  was  making.  Hour  by  hour  I  advanced,  and  saw  no  change 
—  I  was  still  the  very  centre  of  a  round  horizon ;  hour  by  hour  I 


466  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

advanced,  and  still  there  was  the  same  —  and  the  same,  and  the 
same,  —  the  same  circle  of  flaming  sky  —  the  same  circle  of  sand 
still  glaring  with  light  and  fire.  Over  all  the  heaven  above  —  over 
all  the  earth  beneath,  there  was  no  visible  power  that  could  balk  the 
fierce  will  of  the  sun  ;  "  he  rejoiced  as  a  strong  man  to  run  a  race  ; 
his  going  forth  was  from  the  end  of  the  heaven,  and  his  circuit  unto 
the  ends  of  it ;  and  there  was  nothing  hid  from  the  heat  thereof." 
From  pole  to  pole,  and  from  the  east  to  the  west,  he  brandished  his 
fiery  sceptre  as  though  he  had  usurped  all  heaven  and  earth.  As  he 
bid  the  soft  Persian  in  ancient  times,  so  now,  and  fiercely,  too,  he 
bid  me  bow  down  and  worship  him  ;  so  now  in  his  pride  .he  seemed 
to  command  me  and  say,  "  Thou  shalt  have  none  other  gods  but 
me."  I  was  all  alone  before  him.  There  were  these  two  pitted 
together,  and  face  to  face  —  the  mighty  sun  for  one,  and  for  the  other 
—  this  poor,  pale,  solitary  self  of  mine,  that  I  always  carry  about 
with  me. 

But  on  the  eighth  day,  and  before  I  had  yet  turned  away  from 
Jehovah  for  the  glittering  god  of  the  Persians,  there  appeared  a  dark 
line  upon  the  edge  of  the  forward  horizon,  and  soon  the  line  deep- 
ened into  a  delicate  fringe  that  sparkled  here  and  there,  as  though  it 
were  sown  with  diamonds.  There,  then,  before  me  were  the  gar- 
dens and  the  minarets  of  Egypt,  and  the  mighty  works  of  the  Nile 
and  I  (the  eternal  Ego  that  I  am  !)  —  I  had  Hved  to  see,  and  I  saw 
them. 

When  evening  came  I  was  still  within  the  confines  of  the  desert, 
and  my  tent  was  pitched  as  usual,  but  one  of  my  Arabs  stalked 
away  rapidly  towards  the  west  without  telling  me  of  the  errand  on 
which  he  was  bent.  After  a  while  he  returned  ;  he  had  toiled  on  a 
grateful  service  ;  he  had  travelled  all  the  way  on  to  the  border  of  the 
living  world,  and  brought  me  back,  for  token,  an  ear  of  rice,  full, 
fresh,  and  green. 

The  next  day  I  entered  upon  Egypt,  and  floated  along  (for  the 
delight  was  as  the  delight  of  bathing)  through  green,  wavy  fields  of 
rice,  and  pastures  fresh  and  plentiful,  and  dived  into  the  cold  verdure 
of  groves  and  gardens,  and  quenched  my  hot  eyes  in  shade,  as 
though  in  deep  rushing  waters.  ' 


HUGH   MILLER.  467 


HUGH   MILLER. 

Hugh  Miller  was  born  in  Cromarty,  in  Scotland,  in  1802.  He  received  a  verj'  limited 
education  ;  but  he  was  an  assiduous  reader,  and  in  early  youth  acquired  the  general  infor- 
mation and  the  studious  habits  that  formed  the  basis  of  his  literary  character.  He  was  an 
acute  observer  of  nature,  and  his  trade  —  that  of  a  stone  mason  —  led  him  naturally  into 
the  practical  study  of  geology.  His  discoveries  and  his  brilliant  style  of  description  soon 
made  his  name  famous.  He  would  have  been  an  eminent  geologist  without  any  aid  from 
litiirary  art ;  and  his  sensibility,  taste,  and  skill  would  have  made  him  an  eminent  writer 
without  any  special  scientific  culture.  His  principal  works  are.  Scenes  and  Legends  of  the 
North  of  Scotland,  My  Schools  and  Schoolmasters,  Tlie  Cruise  of  the  Betsey,  First  Im- 
pressions of  England  and  its  People,  Geology  of  the  Bass  Rock,  The  Old  Red  Sandstone, 
Footprints  of  the  Creator,  and  The  Testimony  of  the  Rocks.  He  wrote  also  a  volume  of 
immature  poems,  and  contributed  a  great  number  of  articles  to  The  Witness,  an  Edinburgh 
newspaper.  He  was  at  one  time  a  bank  officer  in  his  native  town  ;  but  during  the  most 
productive  part  of  his  life  he  resided  in  the  capital.  During  an  attack  of  insanity,  brought 
on  by  over-exertion  at  the  completion  of  the  Testimony  of  the  Rocks,  he  committed  suicide 
with  a  pistol,  in  1856,  at  Portobello,  near  Edinburgh. 

A  certain  Mr.  Brown,  of  Glasgow,  who  has  written  of  his  Life  and  Times,  enjoys  the  dis- 
tinction of  having  issued  perhaps  the  worst  and  most  tantalizing  biograpliy  of  a  truly  great 
man  which  the  century  has  beheld.  After  placing  the  figure  of  Hugh  Miller  on  a  pedestal 
as  the  greatest  representative  Scotchman,  and  having  whistled  Scott,  Burns,  and  Carlyle 
down  the  wind,  the  author  treats  us  to  disquisitions  upon  Scottish  history.  Free  Church 
politics,  reprobation  of  Dickens,  and  of  the  Vestiges  of  the  Natural  History  of  Creation, 
estimates  of  Cromwell,  denunciations  of  Macaulay,  and  a  great  deal  more  of  Mr.  Brown's 
own  private  opinions ;  but  the  subject  of  the  memoir  remains  a  shadow,  as  in  the  beginning. 
A  nature  so  genial,  gifted  with  such  rare  powers  of  perception  and  analysis,  and  armed  with 
such  consummate  literary  skill,  deserved  an  appreciative  and  modest  biographer.  It  is  not 
too  laie,  perhaps,  to  hope  for  a  life  worthy  of  the  illustrious  subject. 

THE   DROPPING-CAVE   OF   CROMARTY. 
[From  Scenes  and  Legends  of  the  North  of  Scotland.] 

In  perusing,  in  some  of  our  older  gazetteers,  the  half  page  devoted 
to  Cromarty,  we  find  that  among  the  natural  curiosities  of  the  place 
there  is  a  small  cavern  termed  the  Dropping-cave,  famous  for  its 
stalactites  and  its  petrifying  stones. 

And  though  the  progress  of  modern  discovery  has  done  much  to 
lower  the  wonder,  by  rendering  it  merely  one  of  thousands  of  the 
same  class,  —  for  even  among  the  cliffs  of  the  hill  in  which  the  cav- 
ern is  perforated,  there  is  scarcely  a  spring  that  has  not  its  border 
of  coral-like  petrifactions,  and  its  moss,  and  grass,  and  nettle-stalks 
of  marble,  —  the  Dropping-cave  may  well  be  regarded  as  a  curiosity 
still.  It  is  hollowed,  a  few  feet  over  the  beach,  in  the  face  of  one 
of  the  low  precipices  which  skirt  the  entrance  of  the  bay.  From  a 
crag  which  overhangs  the  opening  there  falls  a  perpetual  drizzle, 
which,  setding  on  the  moss  and  lichens  beneath,  converts  them  into 
stone  ;  and  on  entering  the  long,  narrow  apartmerft  within,  there* 
may  be  seen,  by  the  dim  light  of  the  entrance,  a  series  of  springs. 


46b  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

which  filter  through  the  solid  rock  above,  descending  in  so  continual 
a  shower,  that  even  in  the  sultriest  days  of  midsummer,  when  the 
earth  is  parched,  and  the  grass  has  become  brown  and  withered,  we 
may  hear  the  eternal  drop  pattering  against  the  rough  stones  of  the 
bottom,  or  tinkling  in  the  recess  within,  like  the  string  of  a  harp 
struck  to  ascertain  its  tone.  A  stone  flung  into  the  interior,  after 
rebounding  from  side  to  side  of  the  rock,  falls  with  a  deep,  hollow 
plunge,  as  if  thrown  into  the  sea 

There  was  a  tradition  current  in  Cromarty  that  a  townsman  had 
once  passed  through  the  Dropping-cave,  until  he  heard  a  pair  of 
tongs  rattle  over  his  head  on  the  hearth  Of  a  farm-house  of  Navity, 
a  district  of  the  parish  which  lies  fully  three  miles  from  the  opening  ; 
and  Willie,  who  was,  it  seems,  as  hard  of  belief  in  such  matters  as 
if  he  himself  had  never  drawn  on  the  credulity  of  others,  resolved 
on  testing  the  story  by  exploring  the  cave.  He  sewed  sprigs  of 
rowan  and  wych-elm  in  the  hem  of  his  waistcoat,  thrust  a  Bible 
into  one  pocket,  and  a  bottle  of  gin  into  the  other,  and  providing 
himself  with  a  torch,  and  a  staff  of  buckthorn  which  had  been  cut 
at  the  full  of  the  moon,  and  dressed  without  the  assistance  of  iron 
or  steel,  he  set  out  for  the  cave  on  a  morning  of  midsummer.  It 
was  evening  ere  he  returned  —  his  torch  burned  out,  and  his  clothes 
stained  with  mould  and  slime,  and  soaked  with  water.  After  light- 
ing his  torch,  he  said,  and  taking  a  firm  grasp  of  the  staff,  he  plunged 
fearlessly  into  the  gloom  before  him.  The  cavern  narrowed  and 
lowered  as  he  proceeded  ;  the  floor,  which  was  of  a  white  stone  re- 
sembling marble,  was  hollowed  into  cisterns,  filled  with  a  water  so 
exceedingly  pure,  that  it  sparkled  to  the  light  like  spirits  in  crystal ; 
and  from  the  roof  there  depended  clusters  of  richly-embossed  icicles 
of  white  stone,  like  those  which,  during  a  severe  frost,  hang  at  the 
edge  of  a  waterfall.  The  springs  from  above  trickled  along  their 
channelled  sides,  and  then  tinkled  into  the  cisterns,  like  rain  from 
die  eaves  of  a  cottage  after  a  thunder  shower. 

Perhaps  he  looked  too  curiously  around  him  when  remarking  all 
this  ;  for  so  it  was,  that  at  the  ninth  and  last  cistern,  he  missed  his 
footing,  and  falling  forward,  shattered  his  bottle  of  gin  against  the 
side  of  the  cave.  The  liquor  ran  into  a  little  hollow  of  the  marble  ; 
and  unwilling  to  lose  what  he  regarded  as  very  valuable,  and  what 
certainly  had  cost  him  some  trouble  and  suffering  to  procure  (for  he 
rowed  half  way  across  the  frith  for  it,  in  terror  of  the  custom-house 
and  a  cockling  sea),  he  stooped  down  and  drank  until  his  breath 
failed  him.  Never  was  there  better  Nantz  ;  and  pausing  to  recover 
himself,  he  stooped  and  drank,  and  stooped  and  drank,  again  and 


HUGH    MILLER.  4^9 

again.  There  were  strange  appearances  when  he  rose.  A  circular 
rainbow  had  formed  round  his  torch  ;  there  was  a  blue  mist  gather- 
ing in  the  hollows  of  the  cave  ;  the  ver}^  roof  and  sides  began  to 
heave  and  reel,  as  if  the  living  rock  were  a  Flushing  lugger  riding 
on  the  ground-swell ;  and  there  was  a  low,  humming  noise  that  came 
sounding  from  the  interior,  like  that  of  bees  in  a  hawthorn  thicket 
on  an  evening  of  midsummer.  Willie,  however,  had  become  much 
less  timorous  than  at  first,  and  though  he  could  not  well  account  for  the 
fact,  much  less  disposed  to  wonder.  And  so  on  he  went.  He  found 
the  cavern  widen,  and  the  roof  rose  so  high  that  the  light  reached 
only  the  snowy  icicles  which  hung,  meteor-hke,  over  his  head.  The 
walls  were  formed  of  white  stone,  ridged  and  furrowed  like  pieces 
of  drapery,  and  all  before  and  around  him  there  sparkled  myriads 
of  crystals,  like  dew-drops  in  a  spring  morning.  The  sound  of  his 
footsteps  was  echoed  on  either  hand  by  a  multitude  of  openings,  in 
which  the  momentary  gleam  of  his  torch  was  reflected,  as  he  passed, 
on  sheets  of  water  and  ribs  of  rock,  and  which  led,  like  so  many 
arched  corridors,  still  deeper  into  the  bowels  of  the  hill.  Nor,  inde- 
pendently of  the  continuous  humming  noise,  were  all  the  sounds  of 
the  cave  those  of  echo.  At  one  time  he  could  hear  the  wind  moan- 
ing through  the  trees  of  the  wood  above,  and  the  scream  of  a  hawk, 
as  if  pouncing  on  its  prey ;  then  there  was  the  deafening  blast  of  a 
smith's  bellows,  and  the  clang  of  hammers  on  an  anvil ;  and  anon  a 
deep,  hollow  noise,  resembling  the  growling  of  a  wild  beast.  All 
seemed  terribly  wild  and  unnatural  ;  a  breeze  came  moaning  along 
the  cave,  and  shook  the  marble  drapery  of  the  sides,  as  if  it  were 
formed  of  gauze  or  linen  ;  the  entire  cave  seemed  turning  round, 
like  the  cylinder  of  an  engine,  until  the  floor  stood  upright,  and  the 
adventurer  fell  heavily  against  it ;  and  as  the  torch  hissed  and  sput- 
tered in  the  water,  he  could  see  by  its  expiring  gleam  that  a  full  score 
of  dark  figures,  as  undefined  as  shadows  by  moonlight,  were  flitting 
around  him  in  the  blue  mist  which  now  came  rolling  in  dense  clouds 
from  the  interior.  In  a  moment  more  all  was  darkness,  and  he  lay 
insensible  amid  the  chill  damps  of  the  cave. 

The  rest  of  the  adventure  wonderfully  resembled  a  dream.  On 
returning  to  consciousness,  he  found  that  the  gloom  around  him  had 
given  place  to  a  dim  red  twilight,  which  flickered  along  the  sides  and 
roof  like  the  reflection  of  a  distant  fire.  He  rose,  and  grasping  his 
staif,  staggered  forward.  "It  is  sunlight,"  thought  he;  "I  shall 
find  an  opening  among  the  rocks  of  Eathie,  and  return  home  over 
the  hill."  Instead,  however,  of  the  expected  outlet,  he  found  the 
passage  terminate  in  a  wonderful  apartment,  so  vast  in  extent,  that, 


470  HAND-BOOK   OF  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

though  an  immense  fire  of  pine  trees,  whole  and  unbroken  from  root 
to  branch,  threw  up  a  red,  wavering  sheet  of  flame  many  yards  in 
height,  he  could  see  in  some  places  neither  the  walls  nor  the  roof 
A  cataract,  like  that  of  Foyers  during  the  long-continued  rains  of 
an  open  winter,  descended  in  thunder  from  one  of  the  sides,  and 
presenting  its  broad,  undulating  front  of  foam  to  the  red  gleam  of 
the  fire,  again  escaped  into  darkness  through  a  wide,  broken-edged 
gulf  at  the  bottom.  The  floor  of  the  apartment  appeared  to  be 
thickly  strewn  with  human  bones,  half  burned  and  blood  stained, 
and  gnawed  as  if  by  cannibals ;  and  directly  in  front  of  the  fire 
there  was  a  low,  tomb-like  erection  of  dark-colored  stone,  full  twenty 
yards  in  length,  and  roughened  with  grotesque  hieroglyphics,  like 
those  of  a  Runic  obelisk.  An  enormous  mace  of  iron,  crusted  with 
rust  and  blood,  reclined  against  the  upper  end,  while  a  bugle  of  gold 
hung  by  a  chain  of  the  same  metal  from  a  column  at  the  bottom. 
Willie  seized  the  bugle,  and  winded  a  blast,  until  the  wide  apartment 
shook  with  the  din  ;  the  waters  of  the  cataract  disappeared,  as  if 
arrested  at  their  source  ;  and  the  ponderous  cover  of  the  tomb  be- 
gan to  heave  and  crackle,  and  pass  slowly  over  the  edge,  as  if  assailed 
by  the  terrific  strength  of  some  newly-awakened  giant  below.  Wil- 
lie again  winded  the  bugle ;  the  cover  heaved  upward,  disclosing  a 
corner  of  the  chasm  beneath  ;  and  a  hand  covered  with  blood,  and 
of  such  fearful  magnitude  as  to  resemble  only  the  conceptions  of 
Egyptian  sculpture,  was  slowly  stretched  from  the  darkness  towards 
the  handle  of  the  mace. 

Willie's  resolution  gave  way,  and  flinging  down  the  horn,  he  rushed 
hurriedly  towards  the  passage.  A  yell  of  blended  grief  and  indig- 
nation burst  from  the  tomb,  as  the  immense  cover  again  settled  over 
it ;  the  cataract  came  dashing  from  its  precipice  with  a  heavier  vol- 
ume than  before  ;  and  a  furious  hurricane  of  mingled  wind  and  spray, 
that  rushed  howling  from  the  interior,  well  nigh  dashed  the  adven- 
turer against  the  sides  of  the  rock.  He  succeeded,  however,  ir 
gaining  the  passage,  sick  at  heart,  and  nearly  petrified  with  terror. 
A  state  of  imperfect  consciousness  succeeded,  like  that  of  a  feverish 
dream,  in  which  "he  retained  a  sort  of  half  conviction  that  he  was 
lingering  in  the  damps  and  darkness  of  the  cave,  obstinately  and  yet 
unwillingly  ;  and  on  fully  regaining  his  recollection,  he  found  himself 
lying  across  the  ninth  cistern,  with  the  fragments  of  the  broken  bot- 
tle on  the  one  side,  and  his  buckthorn  staff  on  the  other.  He  could 
hear  from  the  opening  the  dash  of  the  advancing  waves  against  the 
rocks,  and  on  leaping  to  the  beach  below,  found  that  his  exploratory 
journey  had  occupied  him  a  whole  day. 


CARDINAL   WISEMAN.  47  ^ 


CARDINAL  WISEMAN. 

Nicholas  Wiseman  was  born  at  Seville  in  Spain,  of  English  parents,  in  1802.  He  was 
educated  at  St.  Cuthbert's  College,  near  Durham.  He  afterwards  went  to  Rome,  and 
eventually  became  Rector  of  the  English  College  there.  He  returned  to  England  in  1835, 
and  has  since  held  a  prominent  position  as  a  preacher  and  writer.  Among  his  works  are 
Horce  Syriacce,  The  Holy  Eucharist,  Science  and  Revealed  Religion,  Fabiola,  or  the 
Church  of  the  Catacombs,  Recollections  of  the  last  four  Popes,  and  Essays  from  the  Dub- 
lin Review.  He  was  appointed  Archbishop  of  Westminster,  and  raised  to  the  rank  of  a 
Cardinal  in  1852.  The  extract  foi;owing  is  from  an  able  address  delivered  to  workingmen. 
suggested  by  the  great  art  exhibition  at  Manchester  in  1857. 

THE   IDENTIFICATION   OF   THE    ARTISAN   AND   ARTIST. 

I  THINK,  among  the  greatest  errors  that  language  has  imposed 
upon  us,  there  is  none  more  remarkable  than  the  sort  of  antagonism 
which  is  established  in  common  language  as  between  Nature  and 
Art.  We  speak  of  art  as  being,  in  a  certain  manner,  the  rival  of 
Nature,  and  opposed  to  it ;  we  contrast  them  —  we  speak  of  the  su- 
periority of  Nature,  and  depreciate  Art  as  compared  with  it.  On  the 
other  hand,  what  is  Art  but  the  effort  that  is  made  by  human  skill 
to  seize  upon  the  transitory  features  of  Nature,  to  give  them  the 
stamp  of  perpetuity  ?  If  we  study  Nature,  we  see  that  in  her  gen- 
eral laws  she  is  unchangeable  ;  the  year  goes  on  its  course,  and  day 
after  day  pass  magnificently  through  the  same  revolutions.  But 
there  is  not  one  single  moment  in  which  either  Nature,  or  anything 
that  belongs  to  her,  is  stationary.  The  earth,  the  planets,  and  the 
sun  and  moon,  are  not  for  any  instant  in  exactly  the  same  relation 
mutually  as  they  were  in  another  instant.  The  face  of  Nature  is 
constantly  changing ;  and  what  is  it  that  preserves  that  for  us  but 
Art,  which  is  not  the  rival,  but  the  child,  as  well  as  the  handmaid, 
of  Nature  ?  You  find,  when  you  watch  the  setting  sun,  how  beau- 
tiful and  how  bright  for  an  instant !  then  how  it  fades  away  !  the 
sky  and  sea  are  covered  with  darkness,  and  the  departed  light  is 
reflected,  as  it  had  been  just  now  upon  the  water,  still  upon  your 
mind.  In  that  one  evanescent  moment  a  Claude  or  a  Stanfield  dips 
his  pencil  in  the  glowing  sky,  and  transfers  its  hue  to  his  canvas  ; 
and  ages  after,  by  the  lamp  of  night,  or  in  the  brightness  of  the 
morning,  we  can  contemplate  that  evening  scene  of  nature,  and 
again  renew  in  ourselves  all  the  emotions  which  the  reality  could 


472  HAND-BOOK  OF  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

impart.  And  so  it  is  with  every  other  object.  Each  of  us  is,  but 
for  the  present  moment,  the  same  as  he  is  in  this  instant  of  his  per- 
sonal existence  through  which  he  is  now  passing.  He  is  the  child, 
the  boy,  the  man,  the  aged  one,  bending  feebly  over  the  last  few  steps 
of  his  career.  You  wish  to  possess  him  as  he  is  now,  in  his  youth- 
ful vigor,  or  in  the  maturity  of  his  wisdom,  and  a  Rembrandt,  or  a 
Titian,  or  a  Herbert,  seizes  that  moment  of  grace,  or  of  beauty,  or 
of  sage  experience  ;  and  he  stamps  indehbly  that  loved  image  on 
his  canvas  ;  and  for  generations  it  is  gazed  on  with '  admiration 
and  with  love.  We  must  not  pretend  a  fight  against  Nature,  and 
say  that  will  make  Art  different  from  what  she  is. 

Let  us  therefore  look  on  Art  but  as  the  highest  image  that  can  be 
made  of  Nature.  Consequently,  while  religion  is  the  greatest  and 
noblest  mode  in  which  we  acknowledge  the  magnificent  and  all-wise 
majesty  of  God,  and  what  he  has  dbne  both  for  the  spiritual  and  the 
physical  existence  of  man,  let  us  look  upon  Art  as  but  the  most 
graceful  and  natural  tribute  of  homage  we  can'  pay  to  him  for  the 
beauties  which  he  has  so  lavishly  scattered  over  creation.  Art, 
then,  is,  to  my  mind,  and  I  trust  to  you  all,  a  sacred  and  a  rever- 
end thing,  and  one  which  must  be  treated  with  all  nobleness  of 
feehng,  and  with  all  dignity  of  aim.  We  must  not  depress  it ;  the 
education  of  our  Art  must  always  be  ending  higher  and  higher  ;  we 
must  fear  the  possibility  of  our  creating  a  mere  lower  class  of  artists 
which  would  degrade  the  higher  departments,  instead  of  endeavor- 
ing to  blend  and  harmonize  every  department ;  so  that  there  shall 
cease  to  exist  in  the  minds  of  men  the  distinction  between  high  and 
low  art. 


SIR   EDWARD   BULWER   LYTTON.  473 


SIR   EDWARD    BULWER   LYTTON. 

Sir  Edward  George  Earle  Lytton  is  the  son  of  the  late  General  William  Earle  Bulwer, 
but  on  succeeding  to  the  estates  of  his  mother  he  was  allowed  by  the  crown  to  exchange 
the  name  of  Bulwer  for  that  of  his  mother,  which  he  now  bears.  He  was  educated  at  Cam- 
bridge, and  gained  the  chancellor's  prize  for  a  poem  in  1825.  A  year  after  he  published 
some  of  his  early  effusions  in  verse.  His  novels,  however,  attracted  more  favorable  atten- 
tion, and  are  still  widely  read,  especially  by  the  young  and  impressible.  The  first  one  of 
note  was  Pelham,  whose  hero  is  a  professed  dandy,  but  not  without  good  points.  Among 
other  popular  works  of  his  earlier  days  are  The  Disowned,  Devereux,  Paul  Clifford,  Pil- 
grims of  the  Rhine,  Last  Days  of  Pompeii,  Rienzi,  Alice  or  the  Mysteries,  Ernest  Mal- 
travers,  Leila  or  the  Siege  of  Grenada,  Night  and  Morning,  Zanoni,  and  the  Last  of  the 
Barons.  None  of  these  can  be  commended  to  the  reader  without  qualification.  They  are 
not  only  unduly  romantic,  but  are  pervaded  by  an  unhealthy  moral  tone.  The  stories  are 
all  constructed  with  skill,  and  hold  the  attention  strongly  until  the  climax  is  reached ;  but 
the  book  once  finished  has  lost  its  charm  The  characters  may  interest  us  during  the 
perusal,  but  not  one  of  them  is  ever  remembered.  The  author's  next  successes  were  in  his 
admirable  plays,  of  which  Richelieu,  The  Lady  of  Lyons,  and  Money  hold  their  place  on 
the  stage  with  undiminished  popularity.  The  New  Timon,  of  which  short  extracts  are  here 
given,  is  a  satirical  poem,  containing  the  plot  of  a  highly-wrought  story,  and  is  not  without 
merit.  The  reference  to  the  Poet  Laureate  is  a  fine  specimen  of  honest  antipathy,  with 
perhaps  a  dash  of  that  old-fashioned  envy  which  we  had  hoped  modem  authors  are  free 
from.  The  attack,  in  fact,  is  a  sad  anachronism,  belonging  to  the  era  of  The  Dunciad.  The 
retort  may  be  read  among  the  specimens  of  Tennyson's  verse  ;  it  is  of  the  Tu  quoqne  sort 
(as  classified  by  Charles  Reade),  which  may  be  freely  rendered  You're  another  I  It  differs 
from  the  blackguardism  of  Punch's  typical  cab  driver  only  in  being  written  by  a  scholar  and 
in  verse. 

In  1850  Sir  Edward  wrote  a  novel  called  The  Caxtons,  evidently  suggested  by  Sterne's 
Tristram  Shandy,  but  of  far  greater  power  than  his  former  stories,  and  mainly  free  from  the 
moral  objections  which  attach  to  them.  This  was  followed  by  My  Novel  and  What  Will 
He  Do  With  It  ?  both  in  a  similar  vein,  and  both  deservedly  popular.  He  has  been  in 
Parliament  for  many  years,  and  has  gained  some  credit  as  a  speech-maker  ;  but  his  politica!! 
influence  has  not  been  greatly  effective  or  conspicuous. 

[From  the  New  Timon.] 

Well,  let  the  world  change  on  —  still  must  endure 

While  Earth  is  Earth  —  one  changeless  race  —  the  Poor! 

Within  that  street,  on  yonder  threshold  stone. 

What  sits  as  stone-like  ? —  Penury,  claim  thine  own  ! 

She  sate  the  homeless  wanderer  —  with  calm  eyes 

Looking  through  tears,  yet  lifted  to  the  skies  ; 

Wistful  but  patient  —  sorrowful  but  mild. 

As  asking  God  when  he  would  claim  his  child. 

A  face  too  young  for  such  a  tranquil  grief. 

The  worm  that  gnawed  the  core  had  spared  the  leaf; 

Though  worn  the  cheek,  with  hunger  or  with  care. 

Yet  still  the  soft  fresh  child-like  bloom  was  there  — 

And  each  might  touch  you  with  an  equal  gloom. 

The  youth,  the  care,  the  hunger,  and  the  bloom ;  — 


474  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

As  if,  when  round  the  cradle  of  the  child 
With  lavish  gifts  the  gentler  fairies  smiled, 
One  vengeful  sprite,  forgotten  as  the  guest. 
Had  breathed  a  spell  to  disenchant  the  rest. 
And  prove  how  slight  each  favor,  else  divine, 
If  wroth  the  Urganda  of  the  Golden  Mine  ! 

A   SHOT   AT   THE   LAUREATE. 

Me  Life  hath  skilled  !  —  to  me,  from  woe  and  wrong, 

By  Passion's  tomb  leapt  forth  the  source  of  Song. 

The  "  Qiiicquid  agtmt  Homines,^''  —  whate'er 

Our  actions  teach  us,  and  our  natures  share, 

Life  and  the  World,  our  City  and  our  Age, 

Have  tried  my  spirit  to  inform  my  page  ; 

I  seek  no  purfled  prettiness  of  phrase,  — 

A  soul  in  earnest  scorns  the  tricks  for  praise. 

If  to  my  verse  denied  the  Poet's  fame. 

This  merit,  rare  to  verse  that  wins,  I  claim  ; 

No  tawdry  grace  shall  womanize  my  pen  ! 

Even  in  a  love-song,  man  should  write  for  men  ! 

Not  mine,  not  mine  (O  Muse,  forbid  !)  the  boon 

Of  borrowed  notes,  the  mock-bird's  modish  tune, 

The  jingling  medley  of  purloined  conceits, 

Outbabying  Wordsworth,  and  outglittering  Keats, 

Where  all  the  airs  of  patchwork-pastoral  chime 

To  drowsy  ears  in  Tennysonian  rhyme  ! 

Am  I  inthralled  but  by  the  sterile  rule. 

The  formal  pupil  of  a  frigid  school, 

If  to  old  laws  my  Spartan  tastes  adhere. 

If  the  old  vigorous  music  charms  my  ear. 

Where  sense  with  sound,  and  ease  with  weight,  combine, 

In  the  pure  silver  of  Pope's  ringing  line  ; 

Or  where  the  pulse  of  man  beats  loud  and  strong 

In  the  frank  flow  of  Dryden's  lusty  song  ? 

Let  School- Miss  Alfred  vent  her  chaste  delight 

On  "  darling  little  rooms  so  warm  and  bright !  " 

Chaunt,  "  I'm  aweary,"  in  infectious  strain. 

And  catch  her  "  blue-fly  singing  i'  the  pane." 

Though  praised  by  Critics,  though  adored  by  Blues, 

Though  Peel  with  pudding  plump  the  puling  Muse, 

Though  Theban  taste  the  Saxon's  purse  controls. 

And  pensions  Tennyson,  while  starves  a  Knowles, 


JAMES   MARTINEAU.  475 

Rather  be  thou,  my  poor  Pierian  Maid, 
Decent  at  least,  in  Hayley's  weeds  arrayed, 
Than  patch  with  frippery  every  tinsel  line, 
And  flaunt  admired,  the  Rag  Fair  of  the  Nine  ! 


What  charms  the  ear  of  childhood  ?  —  not  the  page 

Of  that  romance  which  wins  the  sober  age  ; 

Not  the  dark  truths,  like  warning  ghosts,  which  pass 

Along  the  pilgrim  path  of  Rasselas j 

Not  wit's  wrought  crystal  which,  so  coldly  clear, 

Reflects,  in  Zadig^  learning's  icy  sneer ; 

Unreasoning,  wandering,  stronger  far  the  thrall 

Of  Aimee's  cave,  or  young  Aladdin's  hall ; 

And  so  the  childhood  of  the  heart  will  find 

Charms  in  the  poem  of  a  child-like  mind, 

To  which  the  vision  of  the  world  is  blind  ! 

Even  as  the  savage,  'midst  the  desert's  gloom, 

Sees,  hid  from  us,  the  golden  fruitage  bloom. 

And,  where  the  parched  silence  wraps  us  all, 

Lists  the  soft  lapse  of  the  glad  waterfall ! 


JAMES    MARTINEAU. 

Rev.  James  Martineau,  a  younger  brother  of  Harriet  Martineau,  was  bom  in  Norwich 
in  1805.  He  was  educated  at  the  Unitarian  College  in  York,  and  at  once  devoted  himself 
to  the  ministry.  He  has  achieved  great  distinction  as  a  preacher  and  theological  writer  ; 
and,  what  is  much  more  to  our  purpose,  has  enforced  and  illustrated  the  highest  moral 
truths  in  a  style  of  exceeding  beauty.  Few  religious  writers  have  so  thoroughly  entered 
into  the  thinking  of  the  age  —  not  to  be  swerved  by  it,  but  to  understand  its  tendencies,  and 
to  guide  the  thoughtful  into  the  realm  of  spiritual  and  eternal  things.  The  observations  of 
naturalists,  the  speculations  of  philosophers,  the  teachings  of  history,  — all  the  best  fruits 
of  intellect  are  employed  with  an  unobtrusive  art  to  enrich  his  sentences,  and  to  rivet  atten- 
tion upon  the  sublime  doctrines  that  are  linked  with  our  immortality.  The  selections  in 
this  volume  are  from  a  work  entitled  Endeavors  after  the  Christian  Life. 

IMMORTALITY. 

The  corporeal  frame  is  but  the  mechanism  for  making  thoughts  and 
affections  apparent^  the  signal-house  with  which  God  has  covered  us, 
the  electric  telegraph  by  which  quickest  intimation  flies  abroad  of 
the  spiritual  force  within  us.  The  instrument  may  be  broken,  the 
dial-plate  effaced  ;  and,  though  the  hidden  artist  can  make  no  more 
signs,  he  may  be  rich  as  ever  in  the  things  to  be  signified.     Fever 


476  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

may  fire  the  pulses  of  the  body ;  but  wisdom  and  sanctity  cannot 
sicken,  be  inflamed,  and  die.  Neither  consumption  can  waste,  nor 
fracture  mutilate,  nor  gunpowder  scatter  away,  thought,  and  fidelity, 
and  love,  but  only  that  organization  which  the  spirit  sequestered 
therein  renders  so  fair  and  noble.  To  suppose  such  a  thing  would 
be  to  invert  the  order  of  rank,  which  God  has  visibly  established 
among  the  forces  of  our  world,  and  to  give  a  downright  ascendency 
to  the  brute  energies  of  matter  above  the  vitality  of  the  mind,  which, 
up  to  that  point,  discovers,  subdues,  and  rules  them  ;  to  proclaim  the 
triumph  of  the  sword,  the  casualty,  the  pestilence,  over  virtue,  truth, 
and  faith  ;  to  set  the  cross  above  the  crucified  ;  to  surrender  the 
holy  things  of  this  world  to  corruption,  and  shroud  its  heaven  with 
darkness,  and  turn  its  moon  into  blood.  Think  only  of  this  earth  as 
it  floats  beneath  the  eye  of  God,  —  a  speck  in  the  blue  infinite,  —  a 
precious  life-balloon  freighted  with  the  family  of  spirits  he  has 
willed  to  come  up  and  travel  in  this  portion  of  his  universe.  Re- 
member that  at  this  very  moment,  and  at  each  tick  of  the  clock, 
some  fifty  souls  have  departed  hence,  gone  with  their  tempestuous 
passions,  their  strife,  their  truth,  their  hopes,  into  space  and  silence  ; 
not  either  with  the  appearance  of  forces  spent  and  finished ;  for 
there  are  children  fallen  away,  with  expectant  look  on  life,  nothing 
doubting  the  secure  embrace  that  seems  to  fold  them  round  ;  there  is 
youth,  raised  up  to  self-subsistence,  not  without  difficulty  and  sor- 
row, with  the  clear  deep  light  of  thought  and  wonder  shining  from 
within,  quenched  in  sudden  night ;  there  is  many  an  heroic  life, 
built  on  no  delusion  of  sense  and  selfishness,  but  firm  on  the  ada- 
mant of  faith,  and  defying  the  seductions  of  falsehood  and  the  threats 
of  fear,  —  sunk  from  us  absolutely  away,  and  giving  no  answer  to 
our  recalling  entreaties  and  our  tears.  And  will  you  tell  me  that  all 
this  treasure,  which  is  nothing  less  than  infinite,  is  cancelled  and 
puffed  away,  like  a  worthless  bubble,  into  emptiness  ?  Does  God  stand 
ahead  of  this  mighty  car  of  being  as  it  traverses  the  skies,  only  to 
throw  out  the  boundless  wealth  of  lives  it  bears,  and  plunge  them 
headlong  into  the  abyss  midway  on  their  voyage  through  eternity  ? 
Put  the  question  in  conjunction  with  any  overwhelming  calamity, 
which  perceptibly  plunges  into  sudden  silence  a  multitude  of  souls  ; 
like  the  dreadful  destruction,  just  announced  from  the  western  world, 
of  a  ship  freighted  with  priceless  lives,  with  the  wealth  of  homes, 
the  hopes  of  the  oppressed,  the  hghts  of  nations.^  Let  any  one 
think  over  the  contents  of  that  fated  ship,  when  it  quitted  the  port 

^  The  steamboat  Lexington,  burned  on  Long  Island  Sound,  January  13,  1840. 


JAMES   MARTINEAU.  477 

at  even,  amid  the  cheerful  parting  of  friends,  and  consider  well 
where  they  were  when  the  morning  broke.  There  were  travellers 
from  foreign  lands,  ready  with  pleased  heart  to  tell  at  home  the 
thousand  marvels  they  had  gathered  on  their  way.  There  was  a 
family  of  mourners,  taking  to  their  household  graves  their  unburied 
dead.  And  there  was  one  at  least  of  rare  truth  and  wisdom,  of  de- 
signs than  which  philanthropy  knows  nothing  greater  ;  of  faith  that 
all  must  venerate,  and  love  that  all  must  trust ;  of  persuasive  lips, 
from  which  a  thoughtful  genius  and  the  simplest  heart  poured  forth 
the  true  music  of  humanity.  And  does  any  one  believe  that  this 
freight  of  transcendent  worth, — all  this  sorrow,  and  thought,  and 
hope,  and  moral  greatness,  and  pure  affection,  —  were  burnt,  and 
went  out  with  flame  and  cotton-smoke  ?  Sooner  would  I  believe 
that  the  fire  consumed  the  less  everlasting  stars  !  Such  a  galaxy 
of  spiritual  light  and  order  and  beauty  is  spread  above  the  elements 
and  their  power,  and  neither  heat  can  scorch  it,  nor  cold  water 
drown.  The  bleak  wind,  that  swept  in  the  morning  over  the  black 
and  heaving  wreck,  would  moan  in  the  ear  of  sympathy  with  the 
wail  of  a  thousand  survivors  ;  but  to  the  ear  of  wisdom  and  of  faith, 
would  sound  as  the  returning  whisper  and  requiem  of  hope. 

MUTUAL   RELATION   AND    DEPENDENCE, 

In  the  grouping  of  nature,  dissimilar  things  are  invariably  brought 
together,  and  by  serving  each  other's  wants  and  furnishing  the  com- 
plement to  each  other's  beauty,  present  a  whole  more  perfect  than  the 
sum  of  all  the  parts.  The  world  we  live  in  is  not  a  cabinet  of  curiosi- 
ties, in  which  every  kind  of  thing  has  an  assortment  of  its  own,  labelled 
with  its  exclusive  characters,  and  scrupulously  separated  from  ob- 
jects of  kindred  tribe.  The  free  creative  hand  distributes  its  riches 
by  other  order  than  the  formal  arrangements  of  a  museum  ;  and,  for 
the  happy  life  and  action  of  the  universe,  blends  a  thousand  things, 
which,  for  ends  of  knowledge  only,  would  be  kept  apart.  A  single 
natural  object  may  be  the  focus  of  all  human  studies,  and  present 
problems  to  puzzle  a  whole  congress  of  the  wise.  A  tropical  moun- 
tain, for  instance,  is  a  seat  for  all  the  sciences  ;  and  from  the  snows 
of  its  summit  to  the  ocean  at  its  base,  ranges  through  every  realm 
of  the  physical  world,  and  presents  samples  of  the  objects  and  forces 
pecuHar  to  each.  Its  granite  masses  stand  up  as  the  monumental 
trophy  of  nature's  engineering  ;  while  each  successive  stratum  piled 
around  their  pedestal  is  as  a  notch  on  the  score  and  chronicle  of  her 


478  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

operations.  Its  melting  glaciers  and  its  poised  clouds  keep  her 
chemical  register ;  showing  the  temperature  of  her  laboratory,  and 
marking  the  dew-point  every  hour.  And  from  the  lichen  and  the 
moss  that  paint  its  upper  rocks,  through  the  fields  and  forests  of  its 
slope,  to  the  sea-weeds  that  cling  around  its  roots,  it  carries  grada- 
tions of  vegetable  and  animal  life  more  various  than  can  be  told  by 
the  most  accomplished  physiologist.  And  perhaps  from  some  plat- 
form on  its  side  the  observatory  may  be  raised  ;  whence  the  astron- 
omer obtains  his  glimpse  at  other  regions  of  creation,  surveys  the 
lordly  estate  of  the  Sun  of  whom  our  holding  is,  and  espies  the 
realm  of  space  beyond,  where  worlds  lie  thick  as  forest-leaves.  In 
this,  we  have  only  a  representation  of  the  harmonizing  method  of 
creation  everywhere,  which  combines  the  most  unlike  things  into  a 
perfect  unity.  The  several  ki7tgdo7ns  of  nature,  as  we  term  them, 
are  not  like  our  pohtical  empires,  enclosed  with  jealous  boundaries, 
thick  with  commercial  barriers,  and  bristling  with  military  posts. 
They  pervade  and  penetrate  each  other  ;  they  form  together  an  in- 
dissoluble economy ;  the  mineral  subduing  itself  into  a  basis  for  the 
organic,  the  vegetable  supporting  the  animal,  the  vital  culminating 
in  the  spiritual ;  weak  things  clinging  to  the  strong,  as  the  moss  to 
the  oak's  trunk,  and  the  insect  to  its  leaf;  death  acting  as  tlie  pur- 
veyor of  life,  and  life  playing  the  sexton  to  death.  Mutual  service 
in  endless  gradation  is  clearly  the  world's  great  law. 

In  the  natural  grouping  of  human  life,  the  same  rule  is  found.  It 
is  not  siinilarity  but  ^/j-similarity,  that  constitutes  the  qualification 
for  heartfelt  union  among  mankind  ;  and  the  mental  affinities  resem- 
ble the  electric,  in  which  like  poles  repel,  while  the  unlike  attract. 
A  family,  —  than  which  there  is  no  more  genuine  type  of  nature's 
method  of  arrangement,  —  is  throughout  a  combination  of  ^//^j-Z/^j-y 
the  woman  depending  on  the  man,  —  whose  very  strength,  however, 
exists  only  by  her  weakness  ;  the  child  hanging  on  the  parent,  — 
whose  power  were  no  blessing,  were  it  not  compelled  to  stoop  in 
gentleness  ;  the  brother  protecting  the  sister  —  whose  affections 
would  have  but  half  their  wealth,  were  they  not  brought  to  lean  on 
him  with  trustful  pride  ;  and  even  among  seeming  equals,  the  impet- 
uous quieted  by  the  thoughtful,  and  the  timid  finding  shelter  with 
the  brave.  That  there  "  are  diversities  of  gifts  "  is  the  reason  why 
there  is  "one  spirit ;  "  and  it  is  because  one  is  reliable  for  knowledge, 
and  another  for  resolve,  and  a  third  for  the  graces  of  a  balanced 
mind,  that  all  are  held  in  the  bonds  of  a  pure  affection. 


JAMES   MARTINEAU.  479 

WHAT   CHRISTIANITY   HAS   DONE. 

The  difference  between  the  ancient  and  the  modern  world  is  this  ; 
that  in  the  one  the  great  reaHty  of  being  was  tww j  in  the  other,  it 
is^<?/  to  come.  If  you  would  witness  a  scene  characteristic  of  the 
popular  life  of  old,  you  must  go  to  the  amphitheatre  of  Rome,  mingle 
with  its  eighty  thousand  spectators,  and  watch  the  eager  faces  of 
Senators  and  people ;  observe  how  the  masters  of  the  world  spend 
the  wealth  of  conquest,  and  indulge  the  pride  of  power ;  see  every 
wild  creature  that  God  has  made  to  dwell  from  the  jungles  of  India 
to  the  mountains  of  Wales,  from  the  forests  of  Germany  to  the  des- 
erts of  Nubia,  brought  hither  to  be  hunted  down  in  artificial  groves 
by  thousands  in  an  hour  ;  behold  the  captives  of  war,  noble  perhaps 
and  wise  in  their  own  land,  turned  loose  amid  yells  of  insult  more 
terrible  for  their  foreign  tongue,  to  contend  with  brutal  gladiators 
trained  to  make  death  the  favorite  amusement,  and  present  the  most 
solemn  of  individual  realities  as  a  wholesale  public  sport ;  mark  the 
light  look  with  which  the  multitude,  by  uplifted  finger,  demands  that 
the  wounded  combatant  be  slain  before  their  eyes  ;  notice  the  troop 
of  Christian  martyrs  awaiting,  hand  in  hand,  the  leap  from  the 
tiger's  den  ;  and  when  the  d^y's  spectacle  is  over,  and  the  blood  of 
two  thousand  victims  stains  the  ring,  follow  the  giddy  crowd  as  it 
streams  from  the  vomitories  into  the  street,  trace  its  lazy  course  into 
the  forum,  and  hear  it  there  scrambling  for  the  bread  of  private  in- 
dolence doled  out  by  the  purse  of  public  corruption ;  and  see  how 
it  suns  itself  to  sleep  in  the  open  ways,  or  crawls  into  foul  dens,  till 
morning  brings  the  hope  of  games  and  merry  blood  again  ; — and 
you  have  an  idea  of  the  Imperial  people,  and  their  passionate  living 
for  the  moment,  which  the  gospel  found  in  occupation  of  the  world. 
And  if  you  would  fix  in  your  thought  an  image  of  the  popular  mind 
of  Christendom,  I  know  not  that  you  could  do  better  than"  go  at  sun- 
rise with  the  throng  of  toiling  men  to  the  hill-side  where  Whitefield 
or  Wesley  is  about  to  preach.  Hear  what  a  great  heart  of  reality 
in  that  hymn  that  swells  upon  the  morning  air  ;  — a  prophet's  strain 
upon  a  people's  lips  !  See  the  rugged  hands  of  labor  clasped  and 
trembling,  wrestling  with  the  Unseen  in  prayer !  Observe  the  up- 
lifted faces,  deep -lined  with  hardship  and  with  guilt,  streaming  now 
with  honest  tears,  and  flushed  with  earnest  shame,  as  the  man  of 
God  wakes  the  life  within,  and  tells  of  him  that  bare  for  us  the 
stripe  and  the  cross,  and  offers  the  holiest  spirit  to  the  humblest  lot, 
and  tears  away  the  veil  of  sense  from  the  glad  and  awful  gates  of 


4Bo  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

heaven  and  hell.  Go  to  these  people's  homes,  and  observe  the  decent 
tastes,  the  sense  of  domestic  obligations,  the  care  for  childhood,  the 
desire  of  instruction,  the  neighborly  kindness,  the  conscientious 
self-respect,  and  say,  whether  the  sacred  image  of  duty  does  not 
live  within  those  minds  ;  whether  holiness  has  not  taken  the  place 
of  pleasure  in  their  idea  of  life  ;  whether  for  them  too  the  toils  of 
nature  are  not  lightened  by  some  eternal  hope,  and  their  burden 
carried  by  .some  angel  of  love,  and  the  strife  of  necessity  turned 
into  the  service  of  God. 


BENJAMIN    DISRAELI. 

Benjamin  Disraeli  was  bom  in  London  in  1805.  His  father  was  the  well-known  author 
of  The  Curiosities  of  Literature  and  other  scholarly  works.  He  was  educated  at  a  private 
school,  and  at  an  early  age  was  articled  to  an  attorney  as  clerk  ;  but,  being  an  eminently 
handsome  person,  with  agreeable  manners  and  a  ready  talent  in  conversation,  he  escaped 
from  his  destined  drudgery,  and  became  a  favorite  in  the  fashionable  world.  His  first  book, 
Vivian  Gray,  was  written  at  twenty  years  of  age,  and  was  greatly  successful.  In  this,  as  in 
nearly  all  his  fictions,  the  author  has  given  real  portraits  of  well-known  persons  ;  and  the 
popularity  of  the  society  novel  is  often  owing  as  much  to  curiosity  on  the  part  of  the  reader 
as  to  any  extraordinary  ability  in  the  writer.  Among  his  other  works  are  The  Young  Duke, 
Contarina  Fleming,  The  Wondrous  Tale  of  Alroy,  Henrietta  Temple,  Venetia,  Coningsby, 
Tancred,  Count  Alarcos  (a  tragedy),  and  Lothair.  The  last-named  novel  is  a  sharp,  polit- 
ical pamphlet  against  the  Catholic  party,  written  in  an  extravagant  style,  that  might  be  more 
pardonable  in  a  younger  author. 

After  several  unsuccessful  attempts,  Disraeli  was  elected  to  Parliament,  where  in  his 
maiden  speech  he  made  the  worst  possible  figure.  But  resolution,  practice,  and  a  profound 
study  of  men,  made  him  in  time  a  powerful  debater  and  an  adroit  party  leader.  He  has 
been  constantly  in  public  life,  and  has  twice  been  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer.  He  was 
lately  offered  a  peerage,  which  he  gracefully  declined  in  favor  of  his  wife.  It  is  very  seldom 
that  any  one  in  aristocratic  London  has  achieved  such  a  remarkable  success,  — social,  polit- 
cal,  and  literary,  —  by  the  sheer  force  of  his  own  abilities,  and  in  spite  of  the  disadvantages 
of  his  origin. 

[From  Tancred.] 

It  was  the  first  night  of  the  new  moon,  and  the  white  beams  of 
the  young  crescent  were  just  beginning  to  steal  over  the  lately  flushed 
and  empurpled  scene.  The  air  was  still  glowing,  and  the  evening 
breeze,  which  sometimes  wandered  through  the  ravines  from  the 
Gulf  of  Akabah,  had  not  yet  arrived.  Tancred,  shrouded  in  his 
Bedouin  cloak,  and  accompanied  by  Baroni,  visited  the  circle  of 
black  tents,  which  they  found  almost  empty,  the  whole  band,  with 
the  exception  of  the  scouts,  who  are  always  on  duty  in  an  Arab 
encampment,  being  assembled  in  the  ruins  of  the  amphitheatre,  in 
whose  arena,  opposite  to  the  pavilion  of  the  great  sheik,  a  cele- 
brated poet  was  reciting  the  visit  of  Antar  to  the  temple  of  the  fire- 


BENJAMIN  DISRAELI.  48 1 

worshippers,  and  the  adventures  of  that  greatest  of  Arabian  heroes 
among  the  effeminate  and  astonished  courtiers  of  the  generous  and 
magnificent  Nushirvan. 

The  audience  was  not  a  scanty  one,  for  this  chosen  detachment 
of  the  children  of  Rechab  had  been  two  hundred  strong,  and  the 
gre:it  majority  of  them  were  now  assembled ;  some  seated,  as  the 
ancient  Idumaeans,  on  the  still  entire  seats  of  the  amphitheatre  ; 
most  squatted  in  groups  upon  the  ground,  though  at  a  respectful  dis- 
tance from  the  poet ;  others  standing  amid  the  crumbling  pile  and 
leaning  against  the  tall,  dark  fragments  just  beginning  to  be  silvered 
by  the  moonbeam  ;  but,  in  all  their  countenances,  their  quivering 
features,  their  flashing  eyes,  the  mouth  open  with  absorbing  sus- 
pense, were  expressed  a  wild  and  vivid  excitement,  the  heat  of  sym- 
pathy, and  a  ravishing  delight. 

When  Antar,  in  the  tournament,  overthrew  the  famous  Greek 
knight,  who  had  travelled  from  Constantinople  to  beard  the  court 
of  Persia ;  when  he  caught  in  his  hand  the  assassin  spear  of  the 
Persian  satrap,  envious  of  his  Arabian  chivalry,  and  returned  it  to 
his  adversary's  heart ;  when  he  shouted  from  his  saddle  that  he  was 
the  lover  of  Ibla  and  the  horseman  of  the  age — the  audience  ex- 
claimed, with  rapturous  earnestness,  "It  is  true!  it  is  true!" 
although  they  were  guaranteeing  the  assertions  of  a  hero  who  lived, 
and  loved,  and  fought  more  than  fourteen  hundred  years  before. 
Antar  is  the  Iliad  of  the  desert  ;  the  hero  is  the  passion  of  the 
Bedouins.  They  will  listen  forever  to  his  forays,  when  he  raised  the 
triumphant  cry  of  his  tribe,  "  O,  by  Abs  !  O,  by  Adnan  !  "  to  the 
narratives  of  the  camels  he  captured,  the  men  he  slew,  and  the  maid- 
ens to  whose  charms  he  was  indifferent,  for  he  was  "ever  the  lover 
of  Ibla."  What  makes  this  great  Arabian  invention  still  more  inter- 
esting, is,  that  it  was  composed  at  a  period  antecedent  to  the 
Prophet :  it  describes  the  desert  before  the  Koran,  and  it  teaches 
us  how  httle  the  dwellers  in  it  were  changed  by  the  introduction  and 
adoption  of  Islamism. 

As  Tancred  and  his  companion  reached  the  amphitheatre,  a  ring- 
ing laugh  resounded. 

"  Antar  is  dining  with  the  King  of  Persia  after  his  victory,"  said 
Baroni ;  "  this  is  a  favorite  scene  with  the  Arabs.  Antar  asks  the 
courtiers  the  name  of  every  dish,  and  whether  the  king  dines  so  every 
day.  He  bares  his  arms,  and  chucks  the  food  into  his  mouth  with- 
out ever  moving  his  jaws.  They  have  heard  this  all  their  lives,  but 
always  laugh  at  it  with  the  same  heartiness.  Why,  Shedad,  son  of 
31 


4^2  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

Amroo,"  continued  Baroni  to  an  Arab  near  him,  "  you  have  listened 
to  this  ever  since  you  first  tasted  liban,  and  it  still  pleases  you  ! " 

"  I  am  never  wearied  with  listening  to  fine  language,"  said  the 
Bedouin  ;  "  perfumes  are  always  sweet,  though  you  may  have  smelled 
them  a  thousand  times." 

Except  when  there  was  some  expression  of  feeling  elicited  by  the 
performance,  —  a  shout  or  a  laugh,  —  the  silence  was  absolute.  Not 
a  whisper  could  be  heard ;  and  it  was  in  the  most  muffled  tone  that 
Baroni  intimated  to  Tancred  that  the  great  sheik  was  present,  and 
that,  as  this  was  his  first  appearance  since  his  illness,  he  must  pay 
his  respects  to  Amalek.  So  saying,  and  preceding  Tancred,  in  or- 
der that  he  might  announce  his  arrival,  Baroni  approached  the  pavil- 
ion. The  great  sheik  welcomed  Tancred  with  a  benignant  smile, 
motioned  to  him  to  sit  upon  his  carpet,  rejoiced  that  he  was  recov- 
ered, hoped  that  he  should  live  a  thousand  years,  gave  him  his  pipe, 
and  then,  turning  again  to  the  poet,  was  instantly  lost  in  the  interest 
of  his  narrative.  Baroni,  standing  as  near  Tancred  as  the  carpet 
would  permit  him,  occasionally  leaned  over  and  gave  his  lord  an  in- 
timation of  what  was  occurring. 

After  a  little  while,  the  poet  ceased.  Then  there  was  a  general 
hum,  and  great  praise,  and  many  men  said  to  each  other,  "  All  this 
is  true,  for  my  father  told  it  to  me  before."  The  great  sheik,  who 
was  highly  pleased,  ordered  his  slaves  to  give  the  poet  a  cup  of  cof- 
fee, and,  taking  from  his  own  vest  an  immense  purse^  more  than  a 
foot  in  length,  he  extracted  from  it,  after  a  vast  deal  of  research,  one 
of  the  smallest  of  conceivable  coins,  which  the  poet  pressed  to  his 
lips,  and,  notwithstanding  the  exiguity  of  the  donation,  declared  that 
God  was  great. 

"  O,  sheik  of  sheiks,"  said  the  poet,  "  what  I  have  recited,  though 
it  is  by  the  gift  of  God,  is  in  fact  written,  and  has  been  ever  since 
the  days  of  the  giants  ;  but  I  have  also  dipped  my  pen  into  my  own 
brain,  and  now  I  would  recite  a  poem  which  I  hope  some  day  may 
be  suspended  in  the  Temple  of  Mecca.  It  is  in  honor  of  one  who, 
were  she  to  rise  to  our  sight,  would  be  as  the  full  moon  when  it  rises 
over  the  desert.  Yes,  I  sing  of  Eva,  the  daughter  of  Amalek  "  (the 
Bedouins  always  omitted  Besso  in  her  genealogy),  "  Eva,  the  daughter 
of  a  thousand  chiefs.  May  she  never  quit  the  tents  of  her  race  ! 
May  she  always  ride  upon  Nejid  steeds  and  dromedaries,  with  harness 
of  silver  !  May  she  live  among  us  forever  I  May  she  show  herself 
to  the  people  like  a  free  Arabian  maiden  !  " 

"They  are  the  thoughts  of  truth,"  said  the  delighted  Bedouins  to 
one  another ;  "  every  word  is  a  pearl." 


ALFRED   TENNYSON.  483 

And  the  great  sheik  sent  a  slave  to  express  his  wish  that  Eva  and 
her  maidens  should  appear.  So  she  came  to  listen  to  the  ode  which 
the  poet  had  composed  in  her  honor.  He  had  seen  palm  trees,  but 
they  were  not  as  tall  and  graceful  as  Eva  ;  he  had  beheld  the  eyes 
of  doves  and  antelopes,  but  they  were  not  as  bright  and  soft  as  hers  ; 
he  had  tasted  the  fresh  springs  in  the  wilderness,  but  they  were  not 
more  welcome  than  she,  and  the  soft  splendor  of  the  desert  moon 
was  not  equal  to  her  brow.  She  was  the  daughter  of  Amalek,  the 
daughter  of  a  thousand  chiefs.  Might  she  live  forever  in  their  tents, 
ever  ride  on  Nejid  steeds  and  on  dromedaries  with  silver  harness,  ever 
show  herself  to  the  people  like  a  free  Arabian  maiden  ! 

The  poet,  after  many  variations  on  this  theme,  ceased  amid  great 
plaudits. 

"  He  is  a  true  poet,"  said  an  Arab,  who  was,  like  most  of  his 
brethren,  a  critic ;  "  he  is,  in  truth,  a  second  Antar." 

"If  he  had  recited  these  verses  before  the  King  of  Persia,  he 
would  have  given  him  a  thousand  camels,"  replied  his  neighbor, 
gravely. 

"  They  ought  to  be  suspended  in  the  Temple  of  Mecca,"  said  a 
third. 

"What  I  most  admire  is  his  image  of  the  full  moon  —  that  cannot 
be  too  often  introduced,"  said  a  fourth. 

"  Truly  the  moon  should  ever  shine,"  said  a  fifth.  "  Also,  in  all 
truly  fine  verses  there  should  be  palm  trees  and  fresh  springs." 

Tancred,  to  whom  Baroni  had  conveyed  the  meaning  of  the  verses, 
was  also  pleased.  Having  observed  that  on  a  previous  occasion  the 
great  sheik  had  rewarded  the  bard,  Tancred  ventured  to  take  a  chain, 
which  he  fortunately  chanced  to  wear,  from  his  neck,  and  sent  it  to 
the  poet  of  Eva.  This  made  a  great  sensation,  and  highly  delighted 
the  Arabs. 


ALFRED   TENNYSON. 

Alfred  Tennyson  was  bom  in  Lincolnshire  in  1810.  He  is  the  son  of  a  clergyman,  and  one 
of  a  numerous  and  gifted  family.  He  was  educated  at  Cambridge.  Before  finishing  his 
course  he  published  a  volume  containing  the  series  of  airy  portraits,  which,  read  now  in  the 
light  of  his  great  fame,  seem  exquisite,  but  were  condemned  by  the  critics  then,  as  the  dainty 
affectations  of  a  poetaster.  In  his  second  volume  was  published  The  Miller's  Daughter, 
and  The  May  Queen,  both  full  of  human  interest,  and  remarkable  for  a  subtile  skill  in  word- 
painting.  But  his  third  volume,  which  contained  The  Gardener's  Daughter,  Locksley  Hall, 
Dora,  Ulysses,  and  the  first  of  the  legendary  tales  of  Arthur's  Court,  established  his  reputa- 
tion as  the  first  of  English  poets  ;  and  upon  the  death  of  Wordsworth,  in  1850,  he  was 
appointed  Poet  Laureate.  His  principal  poems  since  published  are,  The  Princess,  In 
Memoriam,  Maud,  The  Idyls  of  the  King,  Enoch  Arden,  and  The  Holy  Grail. 


484  HAND-BOOK  OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

Tennyson  is  generally  considered  to  be  a  philosophical  poet,  and  it  is  true  that  there  is 
more  of  reverie  and  more  of  ieep  meditation  than  of  apparent  movement  in  his  smoothly 
finished  verse.  But  there  ia  not  one  of  the  poems  just  named,  no  matter  with  what  nice  care 
its  perfect  epithets  have  been  chosen,  that  is  not  alive  to  the  core  with  some  of  the  passions 
of  our  nature.  His  style  has  been  stigmatized  as  "enamelled,"  but  his  enamel  is  like 
Milton's  and  Gray's,  burned  into  the  classic  shape  it  covers,  and  as  indestructible  as  the 
great  thoughts  it  adorns. 

The  student  who  would  know  how  the  old  Saxon  element  of  the  language  can  be  moulded 
into  the  most  terse,  musical  and  picturesque  blank  verse  must  read  the  series  of  idyls 
(forming  a  real  epic),  upon  the  Knights  of  the  Round  Table.  The  characters  are  strongly 
drawn  ;  the  incidents  are  in  due  perspective,  and  the  style  appears  so  simple,  that  at  first 
one  does  not  suspect  either  the  vigor  that  inspires  or  the  art  that  has  rounded  the  verse. 
The  songs  of  TVnnyson,  especially  those  in  The  Princess,  have  a  delicious  melody,  to  which 
the  finest  music  can  hardly  add  any  charm. 

Another  trait  must  be  noticed,  and  that  is  the  pictorial  art  of  the  poet.  Every  stanza  in 
his  descriptive  poems  brings  up  a  vivid  scene  to  the  least  imaginative  reader  ;  the  earth,  the 
sky,  and  the  sea  are  seen  to  be  in  harmony  with  the  feeling  of  the  hour ;  and  by  their 
sympathetic  "spect  give  dignity  and  intensity  to  the  human  element. 

Tennyson  is  a  man  of  large  stature,  dark  in  complexion,  with  a  full  beard  and  abundant 
hair.  He  lives  mostly  at  Faringford,  in  the  Isle  of  Wight,  not  far  from  the  Queen's  residence. 
His  aversioxi  to  meeting  strangers  is  peculiarly  strong ;  and  the  determined  silence,  or  the 
short  and  gruff  phrases  by  which  even  the  most  cultivated  visitors  and  admirers  have  been 
repfl)  ■^d,  l«ave  us  without  much  knowledge  of  his  social  character.  Many  a  celebrity  is  most 
^f'-li  '"'orshipped  at  a  distance. 

THE  PASSING  OF  ARTHUR. 

So  all  day  long  the  noise  of  battle  rolled 
Among  the  mountains  by  the  winter  sea ; 
,     Until  King  Arthur's  table,  man  by  man, 
Had  fallen  in  Lyonnesse  about  their  lord, 
King  Arthur  :  then,  because  his  wound  was  deep, 
The  bold  Sir  Bedivere  uplifted  him,  \ 

And  bore  him  to  a  chapel  nigh  the  field, 
A  broken  chancel  with  a  broken  cross. 
That  stood  on  a  dark  strait  of  barren  land. 
On  one  side  lay  the  Ocean,  and  on  one 
Lay  a  great  water,  and  the  moon  was  full. 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedivere : 
"  The  sequel  of  to-day  unsolders  all 
The  goodliest  fellowship  of  famous  knights 
Whereof  this  world  holds  record.     Such  a  sleep 
They  sleep  —  the  men  I  loved.     I  think  that  we 
Shall  never  more,  at  any  future  time, 
Delight  our  souls  with  talk  of  knightly  deeds, 
Walking  about  the  gardens  and  the  halls 


ALFRED   TENNYSON.  485 

Of  Camelot,  as  in  the  days  that  were. 

I  perish  by  this  people  which  I  made,  — 

Though  Merlin  sware  that  I  should  come  again 

To  rule  once  more  —  but  let  what  will  be,  be, 

I  am  so  deeply  smitten  through  the  helm 

That  without  help  I  cannot  last  till  morn. 

Thou  therefore  take  my  brand  Excalibur, 

Which  was  my  pride  :  for  thou  rememberest  how 

In  those  old  days,  one  summer  noon,  an  arm 

Rose  up  from  out  the  bosom  of  the  lake, 

Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonderful. 

Holding  the  sword  —  and  how  I  rowed  across 

And  took  it,  and  have  worn  it,  like  a  king  : 

And,  wheresoever  I  am  sung  or  told 

In  after- time,  this  also  shall  be  known  : 

But  now  delay  not :  take  Excalibur, 

And  fling  him  far  into  the  middle  mere  : 

Watch  what  thou  seest,  and  lightly  bring  me  word." 

To  him  replied  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere  : 

"  It  is  not  meet.  Sir  King,  to  leave  thee  thus. 

Aidless,  alone,  and  smitten  tljrough  the  helm. 

A  little  thing  may  harm  a  wounded  man. 

Yet  I  thy  hest  will  all  perform  at  full. 

Watch  what  I  see,  and  lightly  bring  thee  word." 

So  saying,  from  the  ruined  shrine  he  stept. 
And  in  the  moon  athwart  the  place  of  tombs. 
Where  lay  the  mighty  bones  of  ancient  men, 
Old  knights,  and  over  them  the  sea-wind  sang 
Shrill,  chill,  with  flakes  of  foam.     He,  stepping  down 
By  zigzag  paths,  and  juts  of  pointed  rock. 
Came  on  the  shining  levels  of  the  lake. 

There  drew  he  forth  the  brand  Excalibur, 
And  o'er  him,  drawing  it,  the  winter  moon. 
Brightening  the  skirts  of  a  long  cloud,  ran  forth 
And  sparkled  keen  with  frost  against  the  hilt : 
For  all  the  haft  twinkled  with  diamond  sparks, 
Myriads  of  topas-lights,  and  jacinth-work 
Of  subtlest  jewelry.     He  gazed  so  long 


486  HAND-BOOK  OF  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

That  both  his  eyes  were  dazzled,  as  he  stood, 
This  way  and  that  dividing  the  swift  mind, 
In  act  to  throw  ;  but  at  the  last  it  seemed 
Better  to  leave  Excalibur  concealed 
There  in  the  many-knotted  water-flags, 
That  whistled  stiff  and  dry  about  the  marge. 
So  strode  he  back  slow  to  the  wounded  king. 

Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedivere : 

"  Hast  thou  performed  my  mission  which  I  gave  ? 

What  is  it  thou  hast  seen  ?  or  what  hast  heard  .'' " 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere  : 
"  I  heard  the  ripple  washing  in  the  reeds, 
And  the  wild  water  lapping  on  the  crag." 

To  whom  replied  King  Arthur,  faint  and  pale  : 
"  Thou  hast  betrayed  thy  nature  and  thy  name, 
Not  rendering  true  answer,  as  beseemed 
Thy  fealty,  nor  like  a  noble  knight : 
For  surer  sign  had  followed,  either  hand, 
Or  voice,  or  else  a  motion  of  the  mere. 
This  is  a  shameful  thing  for  men  to  lie. 
Yet  now,  I  charge  thee,  quickly  go  again 
As  thou  art  lief  and  dear,  and  do  the  thing 
I  bade  thee,  watch,  and  lightly  bring  me  word." 

Then  went  Sir  Bedivere  the  second  time 
Across  the  ridge,  and  paced  beside  the  mere, 
Counting  the  dewy  pebbles,  fixed  in  thought ; 
But  when  he  saw  the  wonder  of  the  hilt. 
How  curiously  and  strangely  chased,  he  smote 
His  palms  together,  and  he  cried  aloud :  — 

"  And  if  indeed  I  cast  the  brand  away. 
Surely  a  precious  thing,  one  worthy  note. 
Should  thus  be  lost  forever  from  the  earth. 
Which  might  have  pleased  the  eyes  of  many  men. 
What  good  should  follow  this,  if  this  were  done  ? 
What  harm,  undone  ?  deep  harm  to  disobey, 
Seeing  obedience  is  the  bond  of  rule. 


ALFRED   TENNYSON.  487 

Were  it  well  to  obey  then,  if  a  king  demand 

An  act  unprofitable,  against  himself? 

The  king  is  sick,  and  knows  not  what  he  does. 

What  record,  or  what  relic  of  my  lord 

Should  be  to  after-time,  but  empty  breath 

And  rumors  of  a  doubt  ?  but  were  this  kept, 

Stored  in  some  treasure-house  of  mighty  kings, 

Some  one  might  show  it  at  a  joust  of  arms, 

Saying,  '  King  Arthur's  sword,  Excalibur, 

Wrought  by  the  lonely  maiden  of  the  Lake. 

Nine  years  she  wrought  it,  sitting  in  the  deeps 

Upon  the  hidden  bases  of  the  hills.' 

So  might  some  old  man  speak  in  the  after-time 

To  all  the  people,  winning  reverence. 

But  now  much  honor  and  much  fame  were  lost." 

So  spake  he,  clouded  with  his  own  conceit. 

And  hid  Excalibur  the  second  time. 

And  so  strode  back  slow  to  the  wounded  king. 

Then  spoke  King  Arthur,  breathing  heavily  : 

"  What  is  it  thou  hast  seen  ?  or  what  hast  heard  ?  " 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere, 
"  I  heard  the  water  lapping  on  the  crag. 
And  the  long  ripple  washing  in  the  reeds." 

To  whom  replied  King  Arthur,  much  in  wrath  : 

"  Ah,  miserable  and  unkind,  untrue, 

Unknightly,  traitor-hearted  !     Woe  is  me  ! 

Authority  forgets  a  dying  king. 

Laid  widowed  of  the  power  in  his  eye 

That  bowed  the  will.     I  see  thee  what  thou  art, 

For  thou,  the  latest-left  of  all  my  knights 

In  whom  should  meet  the  offices  of  all. 

Thou  wouldst  betray  me  for  the  precious  hilt ; 

Either  from  lust  of  gold,  or  like  a  girl 

Valuing  the  giddy  pleasure  of  the  eyes. 

Yet,  for  a  man  may  fail  in  duty  twice, 

And  the  third  time  may  prosper,  get  thee  hence : 

But,  if  thou  spare  to  fling  Excalibur, 

I  will  arise  and  slay  thee  with  my  hands." 


488  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

Then  quickly  rose  Sir  Bedivere,  and  ran, 

And,  leaping  down  the  ridges  lightly,  plunged 

Among  the  bulrush  beds,  and  clutched  the  sword, 

And  strongly  wheeled  and  threw  it.     The  great  brand 

Made  Hghtnings  in  the  splendor  of  the  moon, 

And  flashing  round  and  round,  and  whirled  in  an  arch, 

Shot  like  a  streamer  of  the  northern  morn, 

Seen  where  the  moving  isles  of  winter  shock 

By  night,  with  noises  of  the  northern  sea. 

So  flashed  and  fell  the  brand  Excalibur  : 

But  ere  he  dipt  the  surface,  rose  an  arm 

Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonderful. 

And  caught  him  by  the  hilt,  and  brandished  him 

Three  times,  and  drew  him  under  in  the  niere. 

And  lightly  went  the  other  to  the  king. 

Then  spoke  King  Arthur,  drawing  thicker  breath  : 
"  Now  see  I  by  thine  eyes  that  this  is  done. 
Speak  out :  what  is  it  thou  hast  heard,  or  seen  ?  " 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere  : 

"  Sir  King,  I  closed  mine  eyelids,  lest  the  gems 

Should  blind  my  purpose,  for  I  never  saw, 

Nor  shall  see,  here  or  elsewhere,  till  I  die. 

Not  though  I  live  three  lives  of  mortal  men, 

So  great  a  miracle  as  yonder  hilt. 

Then  with  both  hands  I  flung  him,  wheeling  him  ; 

But  when  I  looked  again,  behold  an  arm. 

Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonderful, 

That  caught  him  by  the  hilt,  and  brandished  him 

Three  times,  and  drew  him  under  in  the  mere." 

And  answer  made  King  Arthur,  breathing  hard  ; 
"  My  end  draws  nigh  ;  'tis  time  that  I  were  gone. 
Make  broad  thy  shoulders  to  receive  my  weight, 
And  bear  me  to  the  margin  ;  yet  I  fear 
My  wound  hath  taken  cold,  and  I  shall  die." 

So  saying,  from  the  pavement  he  half  rose, 
Slowly,  with  pain,  reclining  on  his  arm. 
And  looking  wistfully  with  wide  blue  eyes 


ALFRED   TENNYSON.  48.> 

As  in  a  picture.     Him  Sir  Bedivere 
Remorsefully  regarded  through  his  tears, 
And  would  have  spoken,  but  he  found  not  words, 
Then  took  with  care,  and  kneeling  on  one  knee. 
O'er  both  his  shoulders  drew  the  languid  hands. 
And  rising  bore  him  through  the  place  of  tombs. 

But,  as  he  walked,  King  Arthur  panted  hard, 

Like  one  that  feels  a  nightmare  on  his  bed 

When  all  the  house  is  mute.     So  sighed  the  king. 

Muttering  and  murmuring  at  his  ear,  "  Quick,  quick  ! 

I  fear  it  is  too  late,  and  I  shall  die." 

But  the  other  swiftly  strode  from  ridge  to  ridge. 

Clothed  with  his  breath,  and  looking,  as  he  walked, 

Larger  than  human  on  the  frozen  hills. 

He  heard  the  deep  behind  him,  and  a  cry 

Before.     His  own  thought  drove  him  like  a  goad. 

Dry  clashed  his  harness  in  the  icy  caves 

And  barren  chasms,  and  all  to  left  c  nd  right 

The  bare  black  cliff  clanged  round  him,  as  he  based 

His  feet  on  juts  of  slippery  crag  that  rang 

Sharp-smitten  with  the  dint  of  armed  heels  — 

And  on  a  sudden,  lo  !  the  level  lake, 

And  the  long  glories  of  the  winter  moon. 

Then  saw  they  how  there  hove  a  dusky  barge, 

Dark  as  a  funeral  scarf  from  stem  to  stern. 

Beneath  them  ;  and  descending  they  were  ware 

That  all  the  decks  were  dense  with  stately  forms 

Black-stoled,  black-hooded,  like  a  dream  —  by  these 

Three  Queens  with  crowns  of  gold  —  and  from  them  rose 

A  cry  that  shivered  to  the  tinghng  stars. 

And,  as  it  were  one  voice,  an  agony 

Of  lamentation,  like  a  wind  that  shrills 

All  night  in  a  waste  land,  where  no  one  comes, 

Or  hath  come,  since  the  making  of  the  world. 

Then  murmured  Arthur,  "  Place  me  in  the  barge." 
So  to  the  barge  they  came.     There  those  three  Queens 
Put  forth  their  hands,  and  took  the  king,  and  wept. 


490  HAND-BOOK   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

And  slowly  answered  Arthur  from  the  barge  : 

"  The  old  order  changeth,  yielding  place  to  new, 

And  God  fulfils  himself  in  many  ways, 

Lest  one  good  custom  should  corrupt  the  world. 

Comfort  thyself:  what  comfort  is  in  me  ? 

I  have  lived  my  life,  and  that  which  I  have  done 

May  He  within  himself  make  pure  !  but  thou, 

If  thou  shouldst  never  see  my  face  again. 

Pray  for  my  soul.     More  things  are  wrought  by  prayer 

Than  this  world  dreams  of     Wherefore,  let  thy  voice 

Rise  like  a  fountain  for  me  night  and  day. 

For  what  are  men  better  than  sheep  or  goats 

That  nourish  a  blind  life  within  the  brain, 

If,  knowing  God,  they  lift  not  hands  of  prayer 

Both  for  themselves  and  those  who  call  them  friend  } 

For  so  the  whole  round  earth  is  every  way 

Bound  by  gold  chains  about  the  feet  of  God. 

But  now  farewell.     I  am  going  a  long  way 

With  these  thou  seest  —  if  indeed  I  go  — 

(For  all  my  mind  is  clouded  with  a  doubt) 

To  the  island-valley  of  Avilion  ; 

Where  falls  not  hail,  or  rain,  or  any  snow, 

Nor  ever  wind  blows  loudly  ;  but  it  lies 

Deep-meadowed,  happy,  fair  with  orchard-lawns 

And  bowery  hollows  crowned  with  summer  sea, 

Where  I  will  heal  me  of  my  grievous  wound." 

So  said  he,  and  the  barge  with  oar  and  sail 
Moved  from  the  brink,  like  some  full-breasted  swan 
That,  fluting  a  wild  carol  ere  her  death. 
Ruffles  her  pure  cold  plume,  and  takes  the  flood 
With  swarthy  webs.     Long  stood  Sir  Bedivere 
Revolving  many  memories,  till  the  hull 
Looked  one  black  dot  against  the  verge  of  dawn, 
And  on  the  mere  the  wailing  died  away. 

THE  miller's   daughter. 

I  SEE  the  wealthy  miller  yet,  The  slow,  wise  smile  that,  round  about 
His  double  chin,  his  portly  size,  His  dusty  forehead  dryly  curled, 

And  who  that  knew  him  could  forget  Seemed  half-within  and  half-without, 
The  busy  wrinkles  round  his  eyes  ?  And  full  of  dealings  with  the  world  ? 


ALFRED   TENNYSON. 


49» 


In  yonder  chair  I  see  him  sit, 

Three  fingers  round  the  old  silver  cup  — 
1  see  his  gray  eyes  twinkle  yet 

At  his  own  jest  —  gray  eyes  lit  up 
With  summer  lightnings  of  a  soul 

So  full  of  summer  warmth,  so  glad. 
So  healthy,  sound,  and  clear,  and  whole. 

His  memory  scarce  can  make  me  sad. 

Yet  fill  my  glass :  give  me  one  kiss : 

My  own  sweet  Alice,  we  must  die. 
There's  somewhat  in  this  world  amiss 

Shall  be  unriddled  by  and  by. 
There's  somewhat  flows  to  us  in  life, 

But  more  is  taken  quite  away. 
Pray,  Alice,  pray,  my  darling  wife, 

That  we  may  die  the  self-same  day. 

Have  I  not  found  a  happy  earth  ? 

I  least  should  breathe  a  thought  of  pain. 
Would  God  renew  me  from  my  birth 

I'd  almost  live  my  life  again. 
So  sweet  it  seems  with  thee  to  walk, 

And  once  again  to  woo  thee  mine  — 
It  seems  in  after-dinner  talk 

Across  the  walnuts  and  the  wine  — 

To  be  thi  long  and  listless  boy 

Late  left  an  orphan  of  the  squire. 
Where  this  old  mansion  mounted  high 

Looks  down  upon  the  village  spire  : 
For  even  here,  where  I  and  you 

Have  lived  and  loved  alone  so  long. 
Each  morn  my  sleep  was  broken  through 

By  some  wild  skylark's  matin-song. 

And  oft  I  heard  the  tender  dove 

In  firry  woodlands  making  moan  ; 
But  ere  I  saw  your  eyes,  my  love, 

I  had  no  motion  of  my  own. 
For  scarce  my  life  with  fancy  played 

Before  I  dreamed  that  pleasant  dream  — 
Still  hither  thither  idJy  swayed 

Like  those  long  mosses  in  the  stream. 

Or  from  the  bridge  I  leaned  to  hear 

The  mill-dam  rushing  down  with  noise. 
And  see  the  minnows  everywhere 

In  crystal  eddies  glance  and  poise. 
The  tall  flag-flowers  when  they  sprung 

Below  the  range  of  stepping-stones, 
Or  those  three  chestnuts  near,  that  hung 

In  masses  thick  with  milky  cones. 

But,  Alice,  what  an  hour  was  that. 
When  after  roving  in  the  woods, 

('Twas  April  then),  I  came  and  sat 
Below  the  chestnuts,  when  their  buds 


Were  glistening  to  the  breezy  blue  ; 

And  on  the  slope,  an  absent  fool, 
I  cast  me  down,  nor  thought  of  you, 

But  angled  in  the  higher  pool. 

A  love-song  I  had  somewhere  read. 

An  echo  from  a  measured  strain. 
Beat  time  to  nothing  in  my  head 

From  some  odd  corner  of  the  brain. 
It  haunted  me,  the  morning  long. 

With  weary  sameness  in  the  rhymes, 
The  phantom  of  a  silent  song, 

That  went  and  came  a  thousand  limes. 

Then  leapt  a  trout.     In  lazy  mood 

I  watched  the  little  circles  die ; 
They  past  into  the  level  flood. 

And  there  a  vision  caught  my  eye ; 
The  reflex  of  a  beauteous  form, 

A  glowing  arm,  a  gleaming  neck. 
As  when  a  sunbeam  wavers  warm 

Within  the  dark  and  dimpled  beck. 

For  you  remember,  you  had  set. 

That  morning,  on  the  casement's  edge 
A  long  green  box  of  mignonette. 

And  you  were  leaning  from  the  ledge  ; 
And  when  I  raised  my  eyes,  above 

They  met  with  two  so  fu.l  and  bright  — 
Such  eyes  !  I  swear  to  you.  my  love. 

That  these  have  never  lost  their  light. 

I  loved,  and  love  dispelled  the  fear 

That  I  should  die  an  early  death  ; 
For  love  possessed  the  atmosphere. 

And  filled  the  breast  with  purer  breath. 
My  mother  thought.  What  ails  the  boy? 

For  I  was  altered,  and  began 
To  move  about  the  house  with  joy. 

And  with  the  certain  step  of  man. 

I  loved  the  brimming  wave  that  swam 

Through  quiet  meadows  round  the  mill. 
The  sleepy  pool  above  the  dam. 

The  pool  beneath  it  never  still. 
The  meal-sacks  on  the  whitened  floor, 

The  dark  round  of  the  dripping  wheel, 
The  very  air  about  the  door 

Made  misty  with  the  floating  meal. 

And  oft  in  ramblings  on  the  wold. 

When  April  nights  began  to  blow. 
And  April's  crescent  glimmered  cold, 

I  saw  the  village  lights  below  ; 
I  knew  your  taper  far  away. 

And  full  at  heart  of  trembling  hope, 
From  off  the  wold  I  came,  and  lay 

Upon  the  freshly-flowereu  slope. 


492 


HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 


Ths  deep  brook  groanea  beneath  tlie  mill : 
And  "by  that  lamp,"  I  thought,  "she 
sits !  " 

The  white  chalk-quarry  from  the  hill 
Gleamed  to  the  flying  moon  by  fits. 

"  O  that  I  were  beside  her  now  ! 

0  will  she  answer  if  I  call  ? 

O  would  she  give  me  vow  for  vow. 
Sweet  Alice,  if  I  told  her  all  ?  " 

Sometimes  I  saw  you  sit  and  spin  ; 

And,  in  the  pauses  of  the  wind, 
Sometimes  I  heard  you  sing  within  ; 

Sometimes  your  shadow  crossed  the  blind ; 
At  last  you  rose  and  moved  the  light, 

And  the  long  shadow  of  the  chair 
Flitted  across  into  the  night. 

And  all  the  casement  darkened  there. 

But  when  at  last  I  dared  to  speak, 

The  lanes,  you  know,  were  white  with  May; 
Your  ripe  lips  moved  not,  but  your  cheek 

Flushed  like  the  coming  of  the  day  ; 
And  so  it  was  — half  sly,  half  shy. 

You  would,  and  would  not,  little  one  ! 
Although  I  pleaded  tenderly. 

And  you  and  I  were  all  alone. 

And  slowly  was  my  mother  brought 

To  yield  consent  to  my  desire : 
She  wished  me  happy,  but  she  thought 

1  might  have  looked  a  little  higher  ; 
And  I  was  young  —  too  young  to  wed : 

"  Yet  must  I  love  her  for  your  sake  : 
Go  fetch  your  Alice  here,"  she  said  : 
Her  eyelid  quivered  as  she  spake. 

And  down  I  went  to  fetch  ihy  bride  ; 

But,  Alice,  you  were  ill  at  ease  ; 
This  dress  and  that  by  turns  you  tried, 

Too  fearful  that  you  should  not  please. 
I  loved  you  better  for  your  fears, 

I  knew  you  could  not  look  but  well : 
And  dews,  that  would  have  fallen  in  tears, 

I  kissed  away  before  they  fell. 

I  watched  the  little  flutterings, 
The  doubt  my  mother  would  not  see  ; 

She  spoke  at  large  of  many  things. 
And  at  the  last  she  spoke  of  me  ; 


And  turning  looked  upon  your  face. 
As  near  this  door  you  sat  apart. 

And  rose,  and,  with  a  silent  grace 
Approaching,  pressed  you  heart  to  heart. 

Ah,  well  ;  but  sing  the  foolish  song 

I  gave  you,  Alice,  on  the  day 
When,  arm  in  arm,  we  went  along, 

A  pensive  pair,  and  you  were  gay 
With  bridal  flowers  —  that  I  may  seem. 

As  in  the  nights  of  old,  to  lie 
Beside  the  miil-wheel  in  the  stream. 

While  those  full  chestnuts  whisper  by. 

Look  through  mine  eyes  with  thine.     True 
wife, 

Round  my  true  heart  thine  arms  entwine  ; 
My  other  dearer  life  in  life, 

Look  through  my  very  soul  with  thine  ! 
Untouched  with  any  shade  of  years. 

May  those  kind  eyes  forever  dwell ! 
They  have  not  shed  a  many  tears, 

Dear  eyes,  since  first  I  knew  them  well. 

Yet  tears  they  shed  :  they  had  their  part 

Of  sorrow :  for  when  time  was  ripe. 
The  still  affection  of  the  heart     • 

Became  an  outward  breathing  type, 
That  into  stillness  past  again. 

And  left  a  want  unknown  before  ; 
Although  the  loss  that  brought  us  pain. 

That  loss  but  made  us  love  the  more. 

With  farther  lookings  on.     Tlie  kiss, 

The  woven  arms,  seem  but  to  be 
Weak  symbols  of  the  settled  bliss. 

The  comfort,  I  have  found  in  thee  ; 
But  that  God  bless  thee,  dear  —  who  wrought 

Two  spirits  to  one  equal  mind  — 
With  blessings  beyond  hope  or  thought. 

With  blessings  which  no  words  can  find. 

Arise,  and  let  us  wander  forth 

To  yon  old  mill  across  the  wolds ; 
For  look,  the  sunset,  south  and  north. 

Winds  all  the  vale  in  rosy  folds, 
And  fires  your  narrow  casement  glass, 

Touching  the  sullen  pool  below : 
On  the  chalk-hill  the  bearded  grass 

Is  dry  and  dewless.     Let  us  go. 


ALFRED   TENNYSON. 


493 


SONGS. 
[From  the  Princess.] 


The  splendor  falls  on  castle  walls 

And  snowy  summits  old  in  story : 

The  long  light  shakes  across  the  lakes, 

And  the  wild  cataract  leaps  in  glory. 

Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  flying  : 

Blow,  bugle  ;  answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying, 

dying. 

O  hark,  O  hear  !  how  thin  and  clear, 
And  thinner,  clearer,  farther  going  ! 

O  sweet  and  far,  from  cliff  and  scar. 
The  horns  of  Elfland  faintly  blowing  I 


Blow,  let  us  hear  the  purple  glens  replying: 
Blow,  bugle  ;  answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying, 
dying. 

O  love,  they  die  in  yon  rich  sky, 

They  faint  on  hill  or  field  or  river ; 
Our  echoes  roll  from  soul  to  soul, 
And  grow  forever  and  forever. 
Blow,   bugle,    blow,   set  the  wild  echoes 

flying, 
And  answer,  echoes,  answer,  dying,  dyin& 
dying. 


Home  they  brought  her  warrior  dead ; 

She  nor  swooned,  nor  uttered  cry ; 
All  her  maidens,  watching,  said, 

"  She  must  weep  or  she  will  die." 


Stole  a  maiden  from  her  place. 
Lightly  to  the  warrior  stept. 

Took  the  face-cloth  from  the  face  ; 
Yet  she  neither  moved  nor  wept. 


Then  they  praised  him,  soft  and  low. 
Called  him  worthy  to  be  loved, 

Truest  friend  and  noblest  foe  ; 
Yet  she  neither  spoke  nor  moved. 


Rose  a  nurse  of  ninety  years. 
Set  his  child  upon  her  knee  — 

Like  summer  tempest  came  her  tears - 
"Sweet  my  child,  I  live  for  thee." 


tTHE   EAGLE. 

FRAGMENT. 


He  clasps  the  crag  with  hooked  hands  ; 
Close  to  the  sun  in  lonely  lands. 
Ringed  with  the  azure  world,  he  stands. 


The  wrinkled  sea  beneath  him  crawls ; 
He  watches  from  his  mountain  walls, 
And  like  a  thunderbolt  he  falls. 


SONG. 


Break,  break,  break. 

On  thy  cold  gray  stones,  O  Sea  ! 
And  I  would  that  my  tongue  could  utter 

The  thoughts  that  arise  in  me. 


And  the  stately  ships  go  on 
To  their  haven  under  the  hill ; 

But  O  for  the  touch  of  a  vanished  hand. 
And  the  sound  of  a  voice  that  is  still ! 


O  well  for  the  fisherman's  boy. 
That  he  shouts  with  his  sister  at  play  ! 

O  well  for  the  sailor  lad. 
That  he  smgs  in  his  boat  on  the  bay ! 


Break,  break,  break. 

At  the  foot  of  thy  crags,  O  Sea  ! 
But  the  tender  grace  of  a  day  that  is  dead 

Will  never  come  back  to  me. 


[From  In  Memoriam.] 


Calm  is  the  mom  without  a  sound. 
Calm  as  to  suit  a  calmer  grief. 
And  only  through  the  faded  leaf 

The  chestnut  pattering  to  the  ground  i 


Calm  and  deep  peace  on  this  high  wold 
And  on  these  dews  that  drench  the  furze^ 
And  all  the  silvery  gossamers 

That  twinkle  into  green  and  gold* 


494 


HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 


Calm  and  still  light  on  yon  great  plain 
That  sweeps  with  all  its  autumn  bowers. 
And  crowded  farms  and  lessening  towers, 

To  mingle  with  the  bounding  main  : 

Calm  and  deep  peace  in  this  wide  air, 
These  leaves  that  redden  to  the  fall  r 
And  in  my  heart,  if  calm  at  all, 

If  any  calm,  a  calm  despair  : 

Calm  on  the  seas,  and  silver  sleep. 
And  waves  that  sway  themselves  in  rest. 
And  dead  calm  in  that  noble  breast 

Which  heaves  but  with  the  heaving  deep. 


Ring  out,  wild  bells,  to  the  wild  sky. 
The  flying  cloud,  the  frosty  light : 
The  year  is  dying  in  the  night  ; 

Ring  out,  wild  bells,  and  let  him  die. 

Ring  out  the  old,  ring  in  the  new. 
Ring,  happy  bells,  across  the  snow : 
The  year  is  going,  let  him  go  ; 

Ring  out  the  false,  ring  in  the  true. 

king  out  the  grief  that  saps  the  mind. 
For  those  that  here  we  see  no  more ; 


Ring  out  the  feud  of  rich  and  poor, 
Ring  in  redress  to  all  mankind 

Ring  out  a  slowly  dying  cause, 
And  ancient  forms  of  party  strife  ; 
Ring  in  the  nobler  modes  of  life, 

With  sweeter  manners,  purer  laws. 

Ring  out  the  want,  the  care,  the  sin, 
The  faithless  coldness  of  the  times ; 
Ring  out,  ring  out  my  mournful  rhymes, 

But  ring  the  fuller  minstrel  in. 

Ring  out  false  pride  in  place  and  blood. 
The  civic  slander  and  the  spite  ; 
Ring  in  the  love  of  truth  and  right. 

Ring  in  the  common  love  of  good. 

Ring  out  old  shapes  of  foul  disease ; 

Ring  out  the  narrowing  lust  of  gold ; 

Ring  out  the  thousand  wars  of  old. 
Ring  in  the  thousand  years  of  peace. 

Ring  in  the  valiant  man  and  free, 
The  larger  heart,  the  kindlier  hand ; 
Ring  out  the  darkness  of  the  land, 

Ring  in  the  Christ  that  is  to  be. 


THE   CHARGE   OF   THE   LIGHT   BRIGADE. 


Half  a  league,  half  a  league, 
Half  a  league  onward, 
All  in  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 
"Forward,  the  Light  Brigade  I 
Charge  for  the  guns  !  "  he  said ; 
Into  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 


"  Forward,  the  Light  Brigade  ! ' 
Was  there  a  man  dismayed  ? 
Not  though  the  soldier  knew 

Some  one  had  blundered. 
Theirs  not  to  make  reply. 
Theirs  not  to  reason  why. 
Theirs  but  to  do  and  die, 
Into  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 


Stormed  at  with  shot  and  shell, 
Boldly  they  rode,  and  well ; 
Into  the  jaws  of  Death, 
Into  the  mouth  of  Hell 
Rode  the  six  hundred. 


Flashed  all  their  sabres  bare, 
Flashed  as  they  turned  in  air. 
Sabring  the  gunners  there, 
Charging  an  army,  while 

All  the  world  wondered  ; 
Plunged  in  the  battery-smoke, 
Right  through  the  line  they  broke  l 
Cossack  and  Russian 
Reeled  from  the  sabre  stroke 

Shattered  and  sundered. 
Then  they  rode  back,  but  not, 

Not  the  six  hundred. 


Cannon  to  right  of  them, 
Cannon  to  left  of  them, 
Cannon  in  front  of  them 
Volleyed  and  thundered  ; 


Cannon  to  right  of  them. 
Cannon  to  left  of  them, 
Cannon  behind  them 
Volleyed  and  thundered ; 


WILLIAM   MAKEPEACE   THACKERAY. 


49i 


Stormed  at  with  shot  and  shell, 
While  horse  and  hero  fell, 
They  that  had  fought  so  well 
Came  through  the  jaws  of  Death 
Back  from  the  mouth  of  Hell, 
All  that  was  left  of  them, 
Left  of  six  hundred. 


When  can  their  glory  fade  ? 
O  the  wild  charge  they  made  1 

All  the  world  wondered. 
Honor  the  charge  they  made  ! 
Honor  the  Light  Brigade  I 

Noble  six  hundred. 


THE   NEW   TIMON   AND   THE   POETS.^ 


We  know  him,  out  of  Shakespeare's  art. 
And  those  fine  curses  which  he  spoke  ; 

The  old  Timon,  with  his  noble  heart, 
That,  strongly  loathing,  greatly  broke. 

So  died  the  Old :  here  comes  the  New. 

Regard  him :  a  familiar  face  ; 
I  thought  we  knew  him :  What,  it's  you, 

The  padded  man  —  that  wears  the  stays  • 

Who  killed  the  girls  and  thrilled  the  boys 
With  dandy  pathos  when  you  wrote  ! 

A  Lion,  you,  that  made  a  noise, 
And  shook  a  mane  en  papillotes. 

And  once  you  tried  the  Muses  too  ; 

You  failed,  sir :  therefore  now  you  turn, 
To  fall  on  those  who  are  to  you 

As  Captain  is  to  Subaltern. 

But  men  of  long-enduring  hopes, 
And  careless  what  this  hour  may  bring, 

Can  pardon  little  would-be  Popes 
And  Brummels,  when  they  try  to  sting. 

An  Artist,  Sir,  should  rest  in  Art, 
And  wave  a  little  of  his  claim ; 


To  have  the  deep  poetic  heart 
Is  more  than  all  poetic  fame. 

But  you.  Sir,  you  are  hard  to  please  ; 

You  never  look  but  half  content ; 
Nor  like  a  gentleman  at  ease, 

With  moral  breadth  of  temperament. 

And  what  with  spites  and  what  with  fears, 

You  cannot  let  a  body  be  ; 
It's  always  ringing  in  your  ears, 

"  They  call  this  man  as  good  as  me.'''' 

What  profits  now  to  understand 
The  merits  of  a  spotless  shirt  — 

A  dapper  boot  —  a  little  hand  — 
If  half  the  little  soul  is  dirt.I 

You  talk  of  tinsel !  why,  we  see 

The  old  mark  of  rouge  upon  your  cheeks. 
You  prate  of  Nature  !  you  are  he 

That  spilt  his  life  about  the  cliques. 

A  Timon  you  !     Nay,  nay,  for  shame : 

It  looks  too  arrogant  a  jest  — 
The  fierce  old  man  —  to  take  his  name, 

You  bandbox  !     Ofi^  and  let  him  rest. 

Punch,  1846. 


WILLIAM    MAKEPEACE   THACKERAY. 

William  Makepeace  Thackeray  was  bom  in  Calcutta  in  181 1,  his  father  being  in  the  civil 
service  of  the  East  India  Company.  At  seven  years  of  age  he  was  sent  to  England,  stop- 
pi  ig  on  the  way  at  St.  Helena,  where,  as  he  says,  he  saw  the  "Corsican  ogre,"  and  on 
reaching  London  was  placed  at  the  Charterhouse  school.  He  was  afterwards  sent  to  Cam- 
bridge, but  did  not  graduate.  Having  inherited  a  fortune,  he  determined  to  devote  himself 
to  art,  and  pursued  his  studies  abroad  for  some  years :  but  at  length,  after  meeting  with 
pecuniary  losses,  he  turned  his  attention  to  literature.  It  has  been  said  (though  the  author- 
ity cannot  be  given  here),  that  his  first  acquaintance  with  Dickens  came  from  his  making 
some  drawings  to  illustrate  a  story  written  by  the  younger  and  more  popular  novelist. 


1  See  extract  from  Bulwer  Lytton's  New  Timoxi. 


496  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

The  first  productions  of  our  author  were  light  sketches  and  tales,  mostly  under  the  name 
of  Michael  Angelo  Titmarsh  ;  and  it  is  a  coincidence  that  Thackeray's  nose  was  flattened 
in  boyhood  by  a  blow,  as  the  great  sculptor's  was  by  the  mallet  of  Torregiano,  a  brother 
workman.  In  this  early  period  were  published  The  Paris  Sketch-Book,  The  Great  Hog- 
garty  Diamond,  The  Irish  Sketch-Book,  Jeames's  Diary,  The  Yellowplush  Papers,  The 
Book  of  Snobs,  From  Comhill  to  Cairo,  and  Mrs.  Perkins's  Ball.  The  reputation  of 
Thackeray  was  of  slow  growth  ;  none  of  his  early  works  made  much  impression,  until  he 
became  known  through  "  Punch  "  as  the  author  of  the  inimitable  observations  of  Jeames. 
In  all  these  comic  sketches  the  artist  was  quite  as  conspicuous  as  the  author.  His  first  se- 
rial novel  was  Vanity  Fair,  a  powerful  but  bitterly  satirical  work,  and  containing  the  germs 
of  nearly  all  the  ideas  since  elaborated  in  his  other  novels.  This  was  followed  at  intervals 
by  The  History  of  Pendennis,  The  History  of  Henry  Esmond,  The  Ncwcomes,  The  Vir- 
ginians, and  Lovel  the  Widower.  He  wrote  and  illustrated  also  a  great  number  of  Christ- 
mas stories,  which  are  treasures  of  fun  and  of  delicate  sentiment.  In  this  field  he  has 
neither  equal  nor  second.  Rebecca  and  Rowena,  Dr.  Birch  and  his  Young  Friends,  The 
Rose  and  the  Ring,  and  Our  Street,  are  instances  of  the  drollest  conceits  set  off  by  the 
drollest  pictures,  without  a  touch  of  vulgarity,  and  written  for  the  most  part  in  a  style  so 
exquisite,  that  if  Addison  were  proof-reader  he  would  lay  down  his  pencil  in  despair. 
Equally  charming  are  his  Lectures  on  the  English  Humorists,  and  on  The  Four  Georges. 
These  were  delivered  in  this  country  as  well  as  in  England,  and  will  never  be  forgotten  by 
those  who  had  the  good  fortune  to  hear  them. 

Various  opinions  are  held  as  to  Thackeray's  novels.  It  is  true  that  his  heroines  seldom 
have  intellect  and  heart  together,  and  that  we  are  invited  rather  too  often  to  the  discovery 
of  mean  motives,  and  of  all  sorts  of  skeletons  in  closets.  But  there  are  passages  in  all  his 
works  that  could  have  been  dictated  only  by  a  great  and  generous  heart ;  the  ideas  of  honor 
and  manliness  are  never  forgotten  ;  and,  while  affecting  to  sneer  at  sentiment,  he  paints 
scenes  which  cannot  be  read  without  tears. 

It  is  difficult  to  compare  him  with  his  great  rival,  Dickens ;  most  educated  men  will  pre- 
fer the  first  as  the  more  profound  thinker,  the  more  robust  in  character,  and  by  far  the  more 
scholarly  and  more  idiomatic  writer  in  style.  • 

Thackeray  was  a  man  of  powerful  frame  and  commanding  presence.  His  reserve  was 
chilling  at  first,  but  when  tlie  ice  was  broken,  the  ease,  liveliness,  and  kindliness  of  his 
manner  were  indescribable.     He  died  in  1863. 

[From  The  History  of  Henry  Esmond.] 

The  actors  in  the  old  tragedies,  as  we  read,  piped  their  iambics 
to  a  tune,  speaking  from  under  a  mask,  and  wearing  stilts  and  a 
great  head-dress.  'Twas  thought  the  dignity  of  the  Tragic  Muse 
required  these  appurtenances,  and  that  she  was  not  to  move  except 
to  a  measure  and  cadence.  So  Queen  Medea  slew  her  children  to  a 
slow  music  :  and  King  Agamemnon  perished  in  a  dying  fall  (to  use 
Mr.  Dryden's  words) :  the  Chorus  standing  by  in  a  set  attitude,  and 
rhythmically  and  decorously  bewailing  the  fates  of  those  great 
crowned  persons.  The  Muse  of  History  hath  encumbered  herself 
with  ceremony  as  well  as  her  Sister  of  the  Theatre.  She  too  wears 
the  mask  and  the  cothurnus,  and  speaks  to  measure.  She  too,  in 
our  age,  busies  herself  with  the  affairs  only  of  kings  ;  waiting  on 
them,  obsequiously  and  stately,  as  if  she  were  but  a  mistress  of 
Court  ceremonies,  and  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  registering  of  the 


WILLIAM   MAKEPEACE   THACKERAY.  497 

affairs  of  the  common  people.  I  have  seen  in  his  very  old  age  and 
decrepitude  the  old  French  King  Lewis  the  Fourteenth,  the  type  and 
model  of  king-hood  —  who  never  moved  but  to  measure,  who  lived 
and  died  according  to  the  laws  of  his  Court-Marshal,  persisting  in 
enacting  through  life  the  part  of  Hero  ;  and  divested  of  poetry,  this 
was  but  a  little  wrinkled  old  man,  pock-marked,  and  with  a  great 
periwig  and  red  heels  to  make  him  look  tall,  —  a  hero  for  a  book  if 
you  like,  or  for  a  brass  statue  or  a  painted  ceiling,  a  god  in  a  Roman 
shape,  but  what  more  than  a  man  for  Madame  Maintenon,  or  the 
barber  who  shaved  him,  or  Monsieur  Fagon  his  surgeon  ?  I  won- 
der shall  History  ever  pull  off  her  periwig  and  cease  to  be  court- 
ridden  ?  Shall  we  see  something  of  France  and  England  besides 
Versailles  and  Windsor  ?  I  saw  Queen  Anne  at  the  latter  place 
tearing  down  the  Park  slopes  after  her  staghounds,  and  driving  her 
one-horse  chaise  —  a  hot,  red-faced  woman,  not  in  the  least  resem- 
bling that  statue  of  her  which  turns  its  stone  back  upon  Saint  Paul's, 
and  faces  the  coaches  struggling  up  Ludgate  Hill.  She  was  nei- 
ther better  bred  nor  wiser  than  you  and  me,  though  we  knelt  to 
hand  her  a  letter  or  a  wash-hand-basin.  Why  shall  History  go  on 
kneeling  to  the  end  of  time  ?  I  am  for  having  her  rise  up  off  her 
knees,  and  take  a  natural  posture  :  not  to  be  forever  performing 
cringes  and  congees  like  a  Court-chamberlain,  and  shuffling  back- 
wards out  of  doors  in  the  presence  of  the  sovereign.  In  a  word,  I 
would  have  History  familiar- rather  than  heroic  :  and  think  that  Mr. 
Hogarth  and  Mr.  Fielding  will  give  our  children  a  much  better  idea 
of  the  manners  of  the  present  age  in  England,  than  the  Court  Ga- 
zette and  the  newspapers  which  we  get  thence. 


[From  The  Four  Georges.  1 
GEORGE   I. 

A  VERY  few  years  since,  I  knew  familiarly  a  lady,  who  had  been 
Asked  in  marriage  by  Horace  Walpole,  who  had  been  patted  on  the 
head  by  George  I.  This  lady  had  knocked  at  Dr.  Johnson's  door  ; 
had  been  intimate  with  Fox,  the  beautiful  Georgina  of  Devonshire, 
and  that  briUiant  Whig  society  of  the  reign  of  George  III.  ;  had 
known  the  Duchess  of  Queensberry,  the  patroness  of  Gay  and  Prior, 
the  admired  young  beauty  of  the  court  of  Queen  Anne.  I  often 
thought  as  I  took  my  kind  old  friend's  hand,  how  with  it  I  held  on 
to  the  old  society  of  wits  and  men  of  the  world.  I  could  travel  back 
32 


498  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

for  seven  score  years  of  time  —  have  glimpses  of  Brummell,  Selwyn, 
Chesterfield  and  the  men  of  pleasure  ;  of  Walpole  and  Conway^ 
of  Johnson,  Reynolds,  Goldsmith  ;  of  North,  Chatham,  Newcastle  ; 
of  the  fair  maids  of  honor  of  George  II.'s  court;  of  the  German 
retainers  of  George  I.'s  ;  where  Addison  was  secretary  of  state  ; 
where  Dick  Steele  held  a  place  ;  whither  the  great  Marlborough 
came  with  his  fiery  spouse  ;  when  Pope,  and  Swift,  and  Bolingbroke 
yet  lived  and  wrote.  Of  a  society  so  vast,  busy,  brilliant,  it  is  im- 
possible in  four  brief  chapters  to  give  a  complete  notion  ;  but  we 
may  peep  here  and  there  into  that  bygone  world  of  the  Georges, 
see  what  they  and  their  courts  were  like  ;  glance  at  the  people  round 
about  them  ;  look  at  past  manners,  fashions,  pleasures,  and  contrast 
them  with  our  own. 

As  one  views  Europe,  through  contemporary  books  of  travel  in 
the  early  part  of  the  last  century,  the  landscape  is  awful  —  wretched 
wastes,  beggarly  and  plundered  ;  half-burned  cottages  and  trembling 
peasants  gathering  piteous  harvests  ;  gangs  of  such  tramping  along 
with  bayonets  behind  them,  and  corporals  with  canes  and  cats-of- 
nine-tails  to  flog  them  to  barracks.  By  these  passes  my  lord's  gilt 
carriage  floundering  through  the  ruts,  as  he  swears  at  the  postiHons, 
and  toils  on  to  the  Residenz.  Hard  by,  but  away  from  the  noise 
and  brawling  of  the  citizens  and  buyers,  is  Wilhelmslust  or  Lud- 
wigsruhe,  or  Monbijou,  or  Versailles  —  it  scarcely  matters  which,  — 
near  to  the  city,  shut  out  by  woods  from  the  beggared  country,  the 
enormous,  hideous,  gilded,  monstrous  marble  palace,  where  the 
Prince  is,  and  the  Court,  and  the  trim  gardens,  and  huge  fountains, 
and  the  forest  where  the  ragged  peasants  are  beating  the  game  in 
(it  is  death  to  them  to  touch  a  feather) ;  and  the  jolly  hunt  sweeps 
by  with  its  uniform  of  crimson  and  gold  ;  and  the  Prince  gallops 
ahead  puffing  his  royal  horn  ;  and  his  lords  and  mistresses  ride  after 
him ;  and  the  stag  is  pulled  down  ;  and  the  grand  huntsman  gives 
the  knife  in  the  midst  of  a  chorus  of  bugles  ;  and  'tis  time  the  Court 
go  home  to  dinner ;  and  our  noble  traveller,  it  may  be  the  Baron  of 
Pollnitz,  or  the  Count  de  Konigsmarck,  or  the  excellent  Chevalier  de 
Seingalt,  sees  the  procession  gleaming  through  the  trim  avenues  of 
the  wood,  and  hastens  to  the  inn,  and  sends  his  noble  name  to  the 
marshal  of  the  Court.  Then  our  nobleman  arrays  himself  in  green 
and  gold,  or  pink  and  silver,  in  the  richest  Paris  mode,  and  is  intro- 
duced by  the  chamberlain,  and  makes  his  bow  to  the  jolly  Prince, 
and  the  gracious  Princess  ;  and  is  presented  to  the  chief  lords  and 


WILLIAM   MAKEPEACE   THACKERAY.  499 

ladies,  and  then  comes  supper  and  a  bank  at  Faro,  where  he  loses 
or  wins  a  thousand  pieces  by  daylight.  If  it  is  a  German  court,  you 
may  add  not  a  little  drunkenness  to  this  picture  of  high  life  ;  but 
German,  or  French,  or  Spanish,  if  you  can  see  out  of  your  palace- 
windows  beyond  the  trim-cut  forest  vistas,  misery  is  lying  outside  ; 
hunger  is  stalking  about  the  bare  villages,  listlessly  following  preca- 
rious husbandry  ;  ploughing  stony  fields  with  starved  cattle  ;  or 
fearfully  taking  in  scanty  harvests.  Augustus  is  fat  and  jolly  on  his 
throne  ;  he  can  knock  down  an  ox,  and  eat  one  almost  ;  his  mistress, 
Aurora  von  Konigsmarck,  is  the  loveliest,  the  wittiest  creature  ;  his 
diamonds  are  the  biggest  and  most  brilliant  in  the  world,  and  his 
feasts  as  splendid  as  those  of  Versailles.  As  for  Louis  the  Great, 
he  is  more  than  mortal.  Lift  up  your  glances  respectfully,  and  mark 
him  eying  Madame  de  Fontanges  or  Madame  de  Montespan  from  un- 
der his  sublime  periwig,  as  he  passes  through  the  great  gallery  where 
Villars  and  Vendome,  and  Berwick,  and  Bossuet,  and  Massillon  are 
waiting.  Can  Court  be  more  splendid  ;  nobles  and  knights  more 
gallant  and  superb  ;  ladies  more  lovely  ?  A  grander  monarch,  or  a 
more  miserable  starved  wretch  than  the  peasant  his  subject,  you 
cannot  look  on.  Let  us  bear  both  these  types  in  mind,  if  we  wish 
to  estimate  the  old  society  properly.  Remember  the  glory  and  the 
chivalry  ?  Yes  !  Remember  the  grace  and  beauty,  the  splendor 
and  lofty  politeness  ;  the  gallant  courtesy  of  Fontenoy,  where  the 
French  line  bids  the  gentlemen  of  the  English  guard  to  fire  first ; 
the  noble  constancy  of  the  old  King  and  Villars  his  general,  who 
fits  out  the  last  army  with  the  last  crown-piece  from  the  treasury, 
and  goes  to  meet  the  enemy  and  die  or  conquer  for  France  at  De- 
nain.  But  round  all  that  royal  splendor  lies  a  nation  enslaved  and 
ruined :  there  are  people  robbed  of  their  rights  —  communities  laid 
waste  —  faith,  justice,  commerce  trampled  upon,  and  well  nigh  de- 
stroyed—  nay,  in  the  very  centre  of  royalty  itself,  what  horrible 
stains  and  meanness,  crime  and  shame  !  It  is  but  to  a  silly  harlot 
that  some  of  the  noblest  gentlemen,  and  some  of  the  proudest  wo- 
men in  the  world,  are  bowing  down  ;  it  is  the  price  of  a  miserable 
province  that  the  King  ties  in  diamonds  round  his  mistress's  white 
neck.  In  the  first  half  of  the  last  century,  I  say,  this  is  going  on  all 
Europe  over.  Saxony  is  a  waste  as  well  as  Picardy  or  Artois  ;  and 
Versailles  is  only  larger  and  not  worse  than  Herrenhausen. 

We  have  brought  our  Georges  to  London  city,  and  if  we  would 
behold  its  aspect,  may  see  it  in  Hogarth's  lively  perspective  of 


500  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITER ATURK. 

Cheapside,  or  read  of  it  in  a  hundred  contemporary  books  which 
paint  the  manners  of  that  age.  Our  dear  old  "  Spectator  "  looks 
smiling  upon  the  streets,  with  their  innumerable  signs,  and  describes 
them  with  his  charming  humor.  "  Our  streets  are  filled  with  Blue 
Boars,  Black  Swans^  and  Red  Lions,  not  to  mention  Flying  Pigs 
and  Hogs  in  Armor,  with  other  creatures  more  extraordinary  than 
any  in  the  deserts  of  Africa."  A  few  of  these  quaint  old  figures 
still  remain  in  London  town.  You  may  still  see  there,  and  over  its 
old  hostel  in  Ludgate  Hill,  the  "  Belle  Sauvage  "  to  whom  the 
"  Spectator "  so  pleasantly  alludes  in  that  paper  ;  and  who  was, 
probably,  no  other  than  the  sweet  American  Pocahontas,  who  res- 
cued from  death  the  daring  Captain  Smith.  There  is  the  "  Lion's 
Head,"  down  whose  jaws  the  "  Spectator's  "  own  letters  were  passed  ; 
and  over  a  great  banker's  in  Fleet  Street,  the  effigy  of  the  wallet, 
which  the  founder  of  the  firm  bore  when  he  came  into  London  a 
country  boy.  People  this  street,  so  ornamented,  with  crowds  of 
swinging  chairmen,  with  servants  bawling  to  clear  the  way,  with  Mr. 
Dean  in  his  cassock,  his  lackey  marching  before  him  ;  or  Mrs.  Di- 
nah in  her  sack,  tripping  to  chapel,  her  footboy  carrying  her  lady- 
ship's great  prayer-book  ;  with  itinerant  tradesmen,  singing  their 
hundred  cries  (I  remember  forty  years  ago,  as  boy  in  London  city,  a 
score  of  cheery,  familiar  cries  that  are  silent  now).  Fancy  the  beaux 
thronging  to  the  chocolate-houses,  tapping  their  snuff-boxes  as  they 
issue  thence,  their  periwigs  appearing  over  the  red  curtains.  Fancy 
Saccharissa,  beckoning  and  smiling  from  the  upper  windows,  and  a 
crowd  of  soldiers  brawling  and  bustling  at  the  door  —  gentlemen  of 
the  Life  Guards,  clad  in  scarlet,  with  blue  facings,  and  laced  with 
gold  at  the  seams  ;  gentlemen  of  the  Horse  Grenadiers,  in  their 
caps  of  sky-blue  cloth,  with  the  garter  embroidered  on  the  front  in 
gold  and  silver ;  men  of  the  Halberdiers,  in  their  long  red  coats,  as 
bluff  Harry  left  them,  with  their  ruif  and  velvet  flat  caps.  Perhaps 
the  King's  Majesty  himself  is  going  to  St.  James's  as  we  pass.  If 
he  is  going  to  Parliament,  he  is  in  his  coach-and-eight,  surrounded 
by  his  guards  and  the  high  officers  of  his  crown.  Otherwise  his 
Majesty  only  uses  a  chair,  with  six  footmen  walking  before,  and  six 
5'eomen  of  the  guard  at  the  sides  of  the  sedan.  The  officers  in 
waiting:  follow  the  King  in  coaches.     It  must  be  rather  slow  work. 

Our  "  Spectator  "  and  "  Tatler  "  are  full  of  delightful  glimpses  of 
the  town  life  of  those  days.  In  the  company  of  that  charming  guide, 
we  may  go  to  the  opera,  the  comedy,  the  puppet-show,  the  auction, 
even  the  cock-pit :  we  can  take  boat  at  Temple  Stairs,  and  accom- 


WILLIAM   MAKEPEACE   THACKERAY.  50I 

pany  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley  and  Mr.  Spectator  to  Spring  Garden  — 
it  will  be  called  Vauxhall  a  few  years  hence,  when  Hogarth  will  paint 
for  it.  Would  you  not  like  to  step  back  into  the  pa5t,  and  be  intro- 
duced to  Mr.  Addison  ?  —  not  the  Right  Honorable  Joseph  Addison, 
Esq.,  George  I.'s  Secretary  of  State,  but  to  the  delightful  painter  of 
contemporary  manners  ;  the  man  who,  when  in  good-humor  himself, 
was  the  pleasantest  companion  in  all  England.  I  should  like  to  go 
into  Lockit's  with  him,  and  drink  a  bowl  along  with  Sir  R.  Steele 
(who  has  just  been  knighted  by  King  George,  ar>d  who  does  not 
happen  to  have  any  money  to  pay  his  share  of  the  reckoning).  I 
should  not  care  to  follow  Mr.  Addison  to  his  sccrvitary's  office  in 
Whitehall.  There  we  get  into  politics.  Our  business  is  pleasure, 
and  the  town,  and  the  coffee-house,  and  the  theatre,  and  the  Mall. 
Delightful  Spectator  !  kind  friend  of  leisure  hours  !  happy  compan- 
ion !  true  Christian  gentleman  !  How  much  greater^  better,  you  are 
than  the  King  Mr.  Secretary  kneels  to  ! 

You  can  have  foreign  testimony  about  old-world  London,  if  you 
like  ;  and  my  before-quoted  friend,  Charles  Louis,  Baron  de  Poll- 
nitz,  will  conduct  us  to  it.  "  A  man  of  sense,"  says  he,  "  or  a  fine 
gentleman,  is  never  at  a  loss  for  company  in  London,  and  thi?  is  the 
way  the  latter  passes  his  time.  He  rises  late,  puts  on  a  frock;  and, 
leaving  his  sword  at  home,  takes  his  cane,  and  goes  where  he  pleases. 
The  park  is  commonly  the  place  where  he  walks,  because  'tis  the 
Exchange  for  men  of  quality.  'Tis  the  same  thing  as  the  Tuileri-^s 
at  Paris,  only  the  park  has  a  certain  beauty  of  simplicity  which  can- 
not be  described.  The  grand  walk  is  called  the  Mall ;  is  full  of 
people  at  every  hour  of  the  day,  but  especially  at  morning  and  even- 
ing, when  their  Majesties  often  walk  with  the  royal  family,  who  ar^ 
attended  only  by  a  half-dozen  yeomen  of  the  guard,  and  permit  all 
persons  to  walk  at  the  same  time  with  them.  The  ladies  and  gen- 
tlemen always  appear  in  rich  dresses,  for  the  English,  who,  twenty 
years  ago,  did  not  wear  gold  lace  but  in  their  army,  are  now  embroi- 
dered and  bedaubed  as  much  as  the  French.  I  speak  of  persons  of 
quality  ;  for  the  citizen  still  contents  himself  with  a  suit  of  fine 
cloth,  a  good  hat  and  wig,  and  fine  linen.  Everybody  is  well  clothed 
here,  and  even  the  beggars  don't  make  so  ragged  an  appearance  as 
they  do  elsewhere."  After  our  friend,  the  man  of  quality,  has  had 
his  morning  or  undress  walk  in  the  Mall,  he  goes  home  to  dress, 
and  then  saunters  to  some  coffee-house  or  chocolate-house  frequent- 
ed by  the  persons  he  would  see.  "  For  'tis  a  rule  with  the  English 
to  go  once  a  day  at  least  to  houses  of  this  sort,  where  they  talk  of 


502  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

business  and  aews,  read  the  papers,  and  often  look  at  one  another 
without  opening  their  Hps.  And  'tis  very  well  they  are  so  mute : 
for  were  they  all  as  talkative  as  people  of  other  nations,  the  coflfee- 
houses  would  be  intolerable,  and  there  would  be  no  hearing  what 
one  man  said  where  there  are  so  many.  The  chocolate-house  in  St. 
James's  Street,  where  I  go  every  morning  to  pass  away  the  time,  is 
always  so  full  that  a  man  can  scarce  turn  about  in  it." 

Delightful  as  London  city  was.  King  George  I.  liked  to  be  out  of 
it  as  much  as  ever  he  could ;  and  when  there,  passed  all  his  time 
with  his  Germans.  It  was  with  them  as  with  Blucher,  one  hundred 
years  afterwards,  when  the  bold  old  Reiter  looked  down  from  St. 
Paul's,  and  sighed  out,  "  Was  fUr  Plunder  !  "  The  German  women 
plundered  ;  the  German  secretaries  plundered  ;  the  German  cooks 
and  intendants  plundered  ;  even  Mustapha  and  Mahomet,  the  Ger- 
man negroes,  had  a  share  of  the  booty.  Take  what  you  can  get, 
was  the  old  monarch's  maxim.  He  was  not  a  lofty  monarch,  cer- 
tainly :  he  was  not  a  patron  of  the  fine  arts  :  but  he  was  not  a  hyp- 
ocrite, he  was  not  revengeful,  he  was  not  extravagant.  Though  a 
despot  in  Hanover,  he  was  a  moderate  ruler  in  England.  His  aim 
was  to  leave  it  to  itself  as  much  as  possible,  and  to  live  out  of  it  as 
much  as  he  could.  His  heart  was  in  Hanover.  When  taken  ill  on 
his  last  journey,  as  he  was  passing  through  Holland,  he  thrust  his 
livid  head  out  of  the  coach  window,  and  gasped  out,  "  Osnaburg. 
Osnaburg  ! " 

The  Fates  are  supposed  to  interest  themselves  about  royal  per- 
sonages ;  and  so  this  one  had  omens  and  prophecies  specially  re- 
garding him.  He  was  said  to  be  much  disturbed  at  a  prophecy  that 
he  should  die  very  soon  after  his  wife  ;  and  sure  enough,  pallid 
Death,  having  seized  upon  the  luckless  Princess  in  her  castle  of 
Ahlden,  presently  pounced  upon  H.  M.  King  George  I.,  in  his  trav- 
elling chariot,  on  the  Hanover  road.  What  postilion  can  outride 
that  pale  horseman  ?  It  is  said,  George  promised  one  of  his  left- 
handed  widows  to  come  to  her  after  death,  if  leave  were  granted  to 
him  to  revisit  the  glimpses  of  the  moon  ;  and  soon  after  his  demise, 
a  great  raven  actually  flying  or  hopping  in  at  the  Duchess  of  Ken- 
dal's window  at  Twickenham,  she  chose  to  imagine  the  king's  spirit 
inhabited  these  plumes,  and  took  special  care  of  her  sable  visitor. 
Affecting  metempsychosis  —  funereal  royal  bird  !  How  pathetic  is 
the  idea  of  the  Duchess  weeping  over  it ! 


WILLIAM   MAKEPEACE   THACKERAY.  503 

The  days' are  over  in  England  of  that  strange  religion  of  king- 
worship,  when  priests  flattered  princes  in  the  Temple  of  God  ;  when 
servility  was  held  to  be  ennobling  duty  ;  when  beauty  and  youth 
tried  eagerly  for  royal  favor  ;  and  woman's  shame  was  held  to  be  no 
dishonor.  Mended  morals  and  mended  manners  in  courts  and  peo- 
ple, are  among  the  priceless  consequences  of  the  freedom  which 
George  I.  came  to  rescue  and  secure.  He  kept  his  compact  with 
his  English  subjects  ;  and  if  he  escaped  no  more  than  other  men 
and  monarchs  from  the  vices  of  his  age,  at  least  we  may  thank  him 
for  preserving  and  transmitting  the  liberties  of  ours.  In  our  free 
air,  royal  and  humble  homes  have  alike  been  purified  ;  and  Truth, 
the  birthright  of  high  and  low  among  us,  which  quite  fearlessly 
judges  our  greatest  personages,  can  only  speak  of  them  now  in 
words  of  respect  and  regard.  There  are  stains. in  the  portrait  of 
the  first  George,  and  traits  in  it  which  none  of  us  need  admire  ;  but 
among  the  nobler  features  are  justice,  courage,  moderation  —  and 
these  we  may  recognize  ere  we  turn  the  picture  to  the  wall. 


GEORGE  III. 

I  HOLD  old  Johnson  (and  shall  we  not  pardon  James  Boswell 
some  errors  for  embalming  him  for  us  ?)  to  be  the  great  supporter 
of  the  British  monarchy  and  church  during  the  last  age  —  better 
than  whole  benches  of  bishops,  better  than  Pitts,  Norths,  and  the 
great  Burke  himself.  Johnson  had  the  ear  of  the  nation  ;  his  im- 
mense authority  reconciled  it  to  loyalty,  and  shamed  it  out  of  irre- 
ligion.  When  George  III.  talked  with  him,  and  the  people  heard 
the  great  author's  good  opinion  of  the  sovereign,  whole  generations 
rallied  to  the  King.  Johnson  \vas  revered  as  a  sort  of  oracle  ;  and 
the  oracle  declared  for  church  and  king.  What  a  humanity  the  old 
man  had  !  He  was  a  kindly  partaker  of  all  honest  pleasures  :  a 
fierce  foe  to  all  sin,  but  a  gentle  enemy  to  all  sinners.  "  What, 
boys,  are  you  for  a  frolic  ? "  he  cries,  when  Topham  Beauclerc 
comes  and  wakes  him  up  at  midnight :  "  Pm  with  you."  And  away 
he  goes,  tumbles  on  his  homely  old  clothes,  and  trundles  through 
Covent  Garden  with  the  young  fellows.  When  he  used  to  frequent 
Garrick's  theatre,  and  had  "  the  hberty  of  the  scenes,"  he  says,  "  All 
the  actresses  knew  me,  and  dropped  me  a  courtesy  as  they  passed 
to  the  stage."  That  would  make  a  pretty  picture  :  it  is  a  pretty 
picture  in  my  mind,  of  youth,  folly,  gayety,  tenderly  surveyed  by 
wisdom's  merciful,  pure  eyes. 


5C4.  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

His  mother's  bigotry  and  hatred  he  inherited  with  the  courageous 
obstinacy  of  his  own  race  ;  but  he  was  a  firm  beHever  where  his 
fathers  had  been  free-thinkers,  and  a  true  and  fond  supporter  of  the 
Church,  of  which  he  was  the  titular  defender.  Like  other  dull  men, 
the  King  was  all  his  life  suspicious  of  superior  people.  He  did  not 
like  Fox  ;  he  did  not  like  Reynolds  ;  he  did  not  like  Nelson,  Chat- 
ham, Burke  :  he  was  testy  at  the  idea  of  all  innovations,  and  suspi- 
cious of  all  innovators.  He  loved  mediocrities  ;  Benjamin  West 
was  his  favorite  painter  ;  Beattie  was  his  poet.  The  King  lamented, 
not  without  pathos,  in  his  after  life,  that  his  education  had  been 
neglected.  He  was  a  dull  lad,  brought  up  by  narrow-minded  people. 
The  cleverest  tutors  in  the  world  could  have  done  little  probably  to 
expand  that  small  intellect,  though  they  might  have  improved  his 
tastes,  and  taught  his  perceptions  some  generosity. 

But  he  admired  as  well  as  he  could.  There  is  little  doubt  that  a 
letter,  written  by  the  little  Princess  Charlotte  of  Mecklenburg  Stre- 
litz,  —  a  letter  containing  the  most  feeble  commonplaces  about  the 
horrors  of  war,  and  the  most  trivial  remarks  on  the  blessings  of 
peace,  struck  the  young  monarch  greatly,  and  decided  him  upon  se- 
lecting the  young  Princess  as  the  sharer  of  his  throne.  I  pass  over 
the  stories  of  his  juvenile  loves  —  of  Hannah  Lightfoot,  the  Quaker, 
to  whom  they  say  he  was  actually  married  (though  I  don't  know  who 
has  ever  seen  the  register)  —  of  lovely  black-haired  Sarah  Lennox, 
about  whose  beauty  Walpole  has  written  in  raptures,  and  who  used 
to  lie  in  wait  for  the  young  Prince,  and  make  hay  at  him  on  the  lawn 
of  Holland  House.  He  sighed  and  he  longed,  but  he  rode  away 
from  her.  Her  picture  still  hangs  in  Holland  House,  a  magnificent 
master-piece  of  Reynolds,  a  canvas  worthy  of  Titian.  She  looks 
from  the  castle  window,  holding  a  bird  in  her  hand,  at  black-eyed 
young  Charles  Fox,  her  nephew.  The  royal  bird  flew  away  from 
lovely  Sarah.  She  had  to  figure  as  bridesmaid  at  her  little  Mecklen- 
burg rival's  wedding,  and  died  in  our  own  time  a  quiet  old  lady,  who 
had  become  the  mother  of  the  heroic  Napiers. 

They  say  the  little  Princess  who  had  written  the  fine  letter  about 
the  horrors  of  war  —  a  beautiful  letter  without  a  single  blot,  for 
which  she  was  to  be  rewarded,  like  the  heroine  of  the  old  spelling- 
book  story  —  was  at  play  one  day  with  some  of  her  young  compan- 
ions in  the  gardens  of  Strelitz,  and  that  the  young  ladies'  conversa- 
tion was,  strange  to  say,  about  husbands.  "  Who  will  take  such  a 
poor  little  princess  as  me  ?  "  Charlotte  said  to  her  friend,  Ida  von 
Bulow,  and  at  that  very  moment  the  postman's  horn  sounded,  and 


WILLIAM   MAKEPEACE   THACKERAY.  505 

Ida  said,  ''  Princess,  there  is  the  sweetheart !  "  As  she  said,  so  it 
actually  turned  out.  The  postman  brought  letters  from  the  splendid 
young  King  of  all  England,  who  said,  "  Princess,  because  you  have 
written  such  a  beautiful  letter,  which  does  credit  to  your,  head  and 
heart,  come  and  be  Queen  of  Great  Britain,  France,  and  Ireland, 
and  the  true  wife  of  your  most  obedient  servant,  George  !  "  So  she 
jumped  for  joy  ;  and  went  up  stairs  and  packed  all  her  little  trunks ; 
and  set  oif  straightway  for  her  kingdom  in  a  beautiful  yacht,  with  a 
harpischord  on  board  for  her  to  play  upon,  and  around  her  a  beauti- 
ful fleet,  all  covered  with  flags  and  streamers,  and  the  distinguished 
Madame  Auerbach  complimented  her  with  an  ode,  a  translation  of 
which  may  be  read  in  "  The  Gentleman's  Magazine  "  to  the  present 
day  :  — 

"  Her  gallant  navy  through  the  main 
Now  cleaves  its  liquid  way. 
There  to  their  queen  a  chosen  train 
Of  nymphs  due  reverence  pay. 

"  Europa,  when  conveyed  by  Jove 
To  Crete's  distinguished  shore, 
Greater  attention  scarce  could  prove, 
Or  be  respected  more." 

They  met,  and  they  were  married,  and  for  years  they  led  the  hap- 
piest, simplest  lives  sure  ever  led  by  married  couple.  It  is  said  the 
King  winced  when  he  first  saw  his  homely  little  bride  ;  but,  however 
that  may  be,  he  was  a  true  and  faithful  husband  to  her,  as  she  was  a 
faithful  and  loving  wife.  They  had  the  simplest  pleasures — the 
very  mildest  and  simplest  —  little  country  dances,  to  which  a  dozen 
couple  were  invited,  and  where  the  honest  King  would  stand  up  and 
dance  for  three  hours  at  a  time  to  one  tune  ;  after  which  delicious 
excitement  they  would  go  to  bed  without  any  supper  (the  Court  peo- 
ple grumbling  sadly  at  that  absence  of  supper),  and  get  up  quite 
early  the  next  morning,  and  perhaps  the  next  night  have  another 
dance  ;  or  the  Queen  would  play  on  the  spinet  —  she  played  pretty 
well,  Haydn  said  —  or  the  King  would  read  to  her  a  paper  out  of 
the  "  Spectator,"  or  perhaps  one  of  Ogden's  sermons.  O  Arcadia  ! 
what  a  life  it  must  have  been  !  There  used  to  be  Sunday  drawing- 
rooms  at  Court ;  but  the  young  King  stopped  these,  as  he  stopped 
all  that  godless  gambling  whereof  we  have  made  mention.  Not  that 
George  was  averse  to  any  innocent  pleasures,  or  pleasures  which  he 
thought  innocent.  He  was  a  patron  of  the  arts,  after  his  fashion  ; 
kind  and  gracious  to  the  artists  whom  he  favored,  and  respectful  to 
their  calling.     He  wanted  once  to  establish  an  Order  of  Minerva  for 


5o6  HAND-BOOK  OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

literary  and  scientific  characters ;  tlie  knights  were  to  take  rank 
after  the  knights  of  the  Bath,  and  to  sport  a  straw-colored  ribbon 
and  a  star  of  sixteen  points.  But  there  was  such  a  row  amongst 
the  literal  as  to  the  persons  who  should  be  appointed,  that  the 
plan  was  given  up,  and  Minerva  and  her  star  never  came  down 
amongst  us. 

He  objected  to  painting  St.  Paul's,  as  Popish  practice  ;  according- 
ly, the  most  clumsy  heathen  sculptures  decorate  that  edifice  at  pres- 
ent. It  is  fortunate  that  the  paintings,  too,  were  spared,  for  painting 
and  drawing  were  wofully  unsound  at  the  close  of  the  last  century ; 
and  it  is  far  better  for  our^yes  to  contemplate  whitewash  (when  we 
turn  them  away  from  the  clergyman)  than  to  look  at  Opie's  pitchy 
canvases,  or  Fuseli's  livid  monsters. 

And  yet  there  is  one  day  in  the  year  —  a  day  when  old  George 
loved  with  all  his  heart  to  attend  it  —  when  I  think  St.  Paul's  pre- 
sents the  noblest  sight  in  the  whole  world :  when  five  thousand 
charity  children,  with  cheeks  like  nosegays,  and  sweet,  fresh  voices, 
sing  the  hymn  which  makes  every  heart  thrill  with  praise  and  happi- 
ness. I  have  seen  a  hundred  grand  sights  in  the  world  —  corona- 
tions, Parisian  splendors,  Crystal  Palace  openings,  Pope's  chapels 
with  their  processions  of  long-tailed  cardinals  and  quavering  choirs 
of  fat  soprani  — but  think  in  all  Christendom  there  is  no  such  sight 
as  Charity  Children's  day.  No7i  Angli,  sed  angeli.  As  one  looks 
at  that  beautiful  multitude  of  innocents  :  as  the  first  note  strikes  : 
indeed  one  may  almost  fancy  that  cherubs  are  singing. 

Of  church  music  the  King  was  always  very  fond,  showing  skill  in 
it  both  as  a  critic  and  as  a  performer.  Many  stories,  mirthful  and 
affecting,  are  told  of  his  behavior  at  the  concerts  which  he  ordered. 
When  he  was  blind  and  ill  he  chose  the  music  for  the  Ancient  Con- 
certs once,  and  the  music  and  words  which  he  selected  were  from 
"  Samson  Agonistes,"  and  all  had  reference  to  his  bHndness,  his 
captivity,  and  his  affliction.  He  would  beat  time  with  his  music-roll 
as  they  sang  the  anthem  in  the  Chapel  Royal.  If  the  page  below 
was  talkative  or  inattentive,  down  would  come  the  music-roll  on 
young  scapegrace's  powdered  head.  The  theatre  was  always  his 
delight.  His  bishops  and  clergy  used  to  attend  it,  thinking  it  no 
shame  to  appear  where  that  good  man  was  seen.  He  is  said  not  to 
have  cared  for  Shakespeare  or  tragedy  much  ;  farces  and  panto- 
mimes were  his  joy  ;  and  especially  when  clown  swallowed  a  carrot 
or  a  string  of  sausages,  he  would  laugh  so  outrageously  that  the 
lovely  Princess  by  his  side  would  have  to  say,  "  My  gracious  mon- 


WILLIAM   MAKEPEACE   THACKERAY.  S07 

arch,  do  compose  yourself."     But  he  continued  to  laugh,  and  at  the 
very  smallest  farces,  as  long  as  his  poor  wits  were  left  him. 

There  is  something  to  me  exceedingly  touching  in  that  simple 
early  life  of  the  King's.  As  long  as  his  mother  lived  —  a  dozen 
years  after  his  marriage  with  the  Httle  spinet-player  —  he  was  a 
great,  shy,  awkward  boy,  under  the  tutelage  of  that  hard  parent. 
She  must  have  been  a  clever,  domineering,  cruel  woman.  She  kept 
her  household  lonely  and  in  gloom,  mistrusting  almost  all  people 
who  came  about  her  children.  Seeing  the  young  Duke  of  Glouces- 
ter silent  and  unhappy  once,  she  sharply  asked  him  the  cause  of  his 
silence.  "  I  am  thinking,"  said  the  poor  child.  "  Thinking,  sir ! 
and  of  what  ? "  "I  am  thinking  if  ever  I  have  a  son  I  will  not 
make  him  so  unhappy  as  you  make  me."  The  other  sons  were  all 
wild,  except  George.  Dutifully  every  evening  George  and  Char- 
lotte paid  their  visit  to  the  King's  mother  at  Carlton  House.  She 
had  a  throat-complaint,  of  which  she  died  ;  but  to  the  last  persisted 
in  driving  about  the  streets  to  show  she  was  alive.  The  night  be- 
fore her  death  the  resolute  woman  talked  with  her  son  and  daughter- 
in-law  as  usual,  went  to  bed,  and  was  found  dead  there  in  the  morn- 
ing. "  George,  be  a  king  !  "  were  the  words  which  she  was  forever 
croaking  in  the  ears  of  her  son :  and  a  king  the  simple,  stubborn, 
affectionate,  bigoted  man  tried  to  be. 


[From  The  English  Humorists.] 
ADDISON. 

We  love  him  for  his  vanities  as  much  as  his  virtues.  What  is 
ridiculous  is  deljghtful  in  him  ;  we  are  so  fond  of  him  because  we 
laugh  at  him  so.  And  out  of  that  laughter,  and  out  of  that  sweet 
weakness,  and  out  of  those  harmless  eccentricities  and  follies,  and 
out  of  that  touched  brain,  and  out  of  that  honest  manhood  and  sim- 
plicity—  we  get  a  result  of  happiness,  goodness,  tenderness,  pity, 
piety  ;  such  as,  if  my  audience  will  think  their  reading  and  hearing 
over,  doctors  and  divines  but  seldom  have  the  fortune  to  inspire. 
And  why  not  ?  Is  the  glory  of  Heaven  to  be  sung  only  by  gentle- 
men in  black  coats  ?  Must  the  truth  be  only  expounded  in  gown 
and  surplice,  and  out  of  those  two  vestments  can  nobody  preach  it  ? 
Commend  me  to  this  preacher  without  orders  — this  parson  in  the 
tye-wig.  When  this  man  looks  from  the  world,  whose  weaknesses 
he  describes  so  benevolently,  up  to  the  Heaven  which  shines  over 
us  all,  I  can  hardly  fancy  a  human  face  lighted  up  with  a  more  se- 


5o8  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

rene  rapture  :  a  human  intellect  thrilling  with  a  purer  love  and  ado- 
ration than  Joseph  Addison's.  Listen  to  him  :  from  your  childhood 
you  have  known  the  verses  :  but  who  can  hear  their  sacred  music 
without  love  and  awe  ?  — 

"  Soon  as  the  evening  shades  prevail, 
The  moon  takes  up  the  wondrous  tale, 
And  nightly  to  the  listening  earth. 
Repeats  the  story  of  her  birth  ; 
And  all  the  stars  that  round  her  burn, 
And  all  the  planets  in  their  turn. 
Confirm  the  tidings  as  they  roll. 
And  spread  the  truth  from  pole  to  pole. 
What  though,  in  solemn  silence,  all 
Move  round  this  dark  terrestrial  ball ; 
What  though  no  real  voice  nor  sound. 
Among  their  radiant  orbs  be  found ; 
In  reason's  ear  they  all  rejoice, 
And  utter  forth  a  glorious  voice. 
Forever  singing  as  they  shine. 
The  hand  that  made  us  is  divine." 

It  seems  to  me  those  verses  shine  like  the  stars.  They  shine  out 
of  a  great  deep  calm.  When  he  turns  to  Heaven,  a  Sabbath  comes 
over  that  man's  mind  :  and  his  face  lights  up  from  it  with  a  glory  of 
thanks  and  prayer.  His  sense  of  religion  stirs  through  his  whole 
being.  In  the  fields,  in  the  town :  looking  at  the  birds  in  the 
trees  :  at  the  children  in  the  streets  :  in  the  morning  or  in  the  moon- 
light :  over  his  books  in  his  own  room  :  in  a  happy  party  at  a  country 
merry-making  or  a  town  assembly,  good-will  and  peace  to  God's  crea- 
tures, and  love  and  awe  of  Him  who  made  them,  fill  his  pure  heart 
and  shine  from  his  kind  face.  If  Swift's  life  was  the  most  wretched, 
I  think  Addison's  was  one  of  the  most  enviable.  A  life  prosperous 
and  beautiful  —  a  calm  death  —  an  immense  fame  and  affection  after- 
wards for  his  happy  and  spotless  name. 


STEELE. 

Shortly  before  the  Boyne  was  fought,  and  young  Swift  had  begun 
to  make  acquaintance  with  Enghsh  court  manners  and  English  ser- 
vitude, in  Sir  WiHiam  Temple's  family,  another  Irish  youth  was 
brought  to  learn  his  humanities  at  the  old  school  of  Charterhouse, 
near  Smithfield  ;  •  to  which  foundation  he  had  been  appointed  by 
James,  Duke  of  Ormond,  a  governor  of  the  House,  and  a  patron  of 
the  lad's  family.  The  boy  was  an  orphan,  and  described,  twenty 
years  after,  wUh  a  sweet  pathos  and  simplicity,  some  of  the  earli- 


WILLIAM   MAKEPEACE   THACKERAY.  509 

est  recollections  of  a  life  which  was  destined  to  be  checkered  by  a 
strange  variety  of  good  and  evil  fortune. 

I  am  afraid  no  good  report  could  be  given  by  his  masters  and 
ushers  of  that  thick-set,  square-faced,  black-eyed,  soft-hearted  little 
Irish  boy.  He  was  very  idle.  He  was  whipped  deservedly  a  great 
number  of  times.  Though  he  had  very  good  parts  of  his  own,  he 
got  other  boys  to  do  his  lessons  for  him,  and  only  took  just  as  much 
trouble  as  should  enable  him  to  scuffle  through  his  exercises,  and  by 
good  fortune  escape  the  flogging-block.  One  hundred  and  fifty  years 
after,  I  have  myself  inspected,  but  only  as  an  amateur,  that  instru- 
ment of  righteous  torture  still  existing,  and  in  occasional  use,  in  a 
secluded  private  apartment  of  the  old  Charterhouse  School ;  and 
have  no  doubt  it  is  the  very  counterpart,  if  not  the  ancient  and  in- 
teresting machine  itself,  at  which  poor  Dick  Steele  submitted  him- 
self to  the  tormentors. 

Besides  being  very  kind,  lazy,  and  good-natured,  this  boy  went 
invariably  into  debt  with  the  tart-woman  ;  ran  out  of  bounds,  and 
entered  into  pecuniary,  or  rather  promissory  engagements  with  the 
neighboring  lollipop-vendors  and  piemen  —  exhibited  an  early  fond- 
ness and  capacity  for  drinking  mum  and  sack,  and  borrowed  from 
all  his  comrades  who  had  money  to  lend.  I  have  no  sort  of  author- 
ity for  the  statements  here  made  of  Steele's  early  hfe  ;  but  if  the 
child  is  father  of  the  man,  the  father  of  young  Steele  of  Merton, 
who  left  Oxford  without  taking  a  degree,  and  entered  the  Life  Guards 
—  the  father  of  Captain  Steele  of  Lucas's  Fusiliers,  who  got  his 
company  through  the  patronage  of  my  Lord  Cutts  —  the  father  of 
Mr.  Steele  the  Commissioner  of  Stamps,  the  editor  of  "  The  Ga- 
zette," "  The  Tatler,"  and  "  Spectator,"  the  expelled  Member  of 
Parliament,  and  the  author  of  "  The  Tender  Husband  "  and  "  The 
Conscious  Lovers  ; "  if  man  and  boy  resembled  each  other,  Dick 
Steele  the  school-boy  must  have  been  one  of  the.  most  generous, 
good-for-nothing,  amiable  little  creatures  that  ever  conjugated  the 
verb  tupto  I  beat,  tupto7nai  I  am  whipped,  in  any  school  in  Great 
Britain. 

Almost  every  gentleman  who  does  me  the  honor  to  hear  me  will 
remember  that  the  very  greatest  character  which  he  has  seen  in  the 
course  of  his  life,  and  the  person  to  whom  he  has  looked  up  with 
the  greatest  wonder  and  reverence,  was  the  head  boy  at  his  school. 
The  schoolmaster  himself  hardly  inspires  such  an  awe.  The  head 
boy  construes  as  well  as  the  schoolmaster  himself  When  he  begins 
to  speak  the  hall  is  hushed,  and  every  little  boy  listens.     He  writes 


SIO  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

off  copies  of  Latin  verses  as  melodiously  as  Virgil.  He  is  good- 
natured,  and,  his  own  master-pieces  achieved,  pours  out  other  copies 
of  verses  for  other  boys  with  an  astonishing  ease  and  fluency ;  the 
idle  ones  only  trembling  lest  they  should  be  discovered  on  giving  in 
their  exercises,  and  whipped  because  their  poems  were  too  good.  I 
have  seen  great  men  in  my  time,  but  never  such  a  great  one  as  that 
head  boy  of  my  childhood  :  we  all  thought  he  must  be  Prime  Min- 
ister, and  I  was  disappointed  on  meeting  him  in  after-life  to  find  he 
was  no  more  than  six  feet  high. 

Dick  Steele,  the  Charterhouse  gown  boy,  contracted  such  an  ad- 
miration in  the  years  of  his  childhood,  and  retained  it  faithfully 
through  his  life.  Through  the  school  and  through  the  world,  whith- 
ersoever his  strange  fortune  led  this  erring,  wayward,  affectionate 
creature,  Joseph  Addison  was  always  his  head  boy.  Addison  wrote 
his  exercises.  Addison  did  his  best  themes.  He  ran  on  Addison's 
messages  :  fagged  for  him  and  blacked  his  shoes  :  to  be  in  Joe's 
company  was  Dick's  greatest  pleasure  ;  and  he  took  a  sermon  or  a 
caning  from  his  monitor  with  the  most  boundless  reverence,  acqui- 
escence, and  affection. 


GOLDSMITH. 

In  those  charming  lines  of  Beranger,'  one  may  fancy  described 
the  career,  the  sufferings,  the  genius,  the  gentle  nature  of  Gold- 
smith, and  the  esteem  in  which  we  hold  him.  Who,  of  the  millions 
whom  he  has  amused,  doesn't  love  him  ?  To  be  the  most  beloved 
of  English  writers,  what  a  title  that  is  for  a  man  !  A  wild  youth, 
wayward,  but  full  of  tenderness  and  affection,  quits  the  country  vil- 
lage where  his  boyhood  has  been  passed  in  happy  musing,  in  idle 
shelter,  in  fond  longing  to  see  the  great  world  out  of  doors,  and 

*  "  Jet^  sur  cette  boule, 
Laid,  chetif  et  souffrant ; 
Etouffe  dans  la  foule,  ' 

Faute  d'etre  assez  grand: 

"  Une  plainte  touchante 
De  ma  bouche  sortit ; 
Le  bon  Dieu  me  dit :  Chante, 
Chante,  pauvre  petit  ! 

"  Chanter,  ou  je  m'abuse, 
Est  ma  tache  ici  bas. 
Tous  ceux  qu'ainsi  j'amuse, 
Ne  m'aimeront-ils  pas  ?  " 


WILLIAM   MAKEPEACE   THACKERAY.  5II 

achieve  name  and  fortune  ;  and  after  years  of  dire  struggle,  and 
neglect  and  poverty,  his  heart  turning  back  as  fondly  to  his  native 
place  as  it  had  longed  eagerly  for  change  when  sheltered  there,  he 
writes  a  book  and  a  poem,  full  of  the  recollections  and  feelings  of 
home  —  he  paints  the  friends  and  scenes  of  his  youth,  and  peoples 
Auburn  and  Wakefield  with  remembrances  of  Lissoy.  Wander  he 
must,  but  he  carries  away  a  home-relic  with  him,  and  dies  with  it  on 
his  breast.  His  nature  is  truant ;  in  repose  it  longs  for  change  :  as 
on  the  journey  it  looks  back  for  friends  and  quiet.  He  passes  to-day 
in  building  an  air-castle  for  to-morrow,  or  in  writing  yesterday's  ele- 
gy ;  and  he  would  fly  away  this  hour :  but  that  a  cage  and  necessilv 
keeps  him.  What  is  the  charm  of  his  verse,  of  his  style,  and  humor? 
His  sweet  regrets,  his  delicate  compassion,  his  soft  smile,  his  trem- 
ulous sympathy,  the  weakness  which  he  owns  ?  Your  love  for  hirr> 
is  half  pity.  You  come  hot  and  tired  from  the  day's  battle,  and  this 
sweet  minstrel  sings  to  you.  Who  could  harm  the  kind  vagrant 
harper  ?  Whom  did  he  ever  hurt  ?  He  carries  no  weapon  —  save  the 
harp  on  which  he  plays  to  you  ;  and  with  which  he  delights  grea*- 
and  humble,  young  and  old,  the  captains  in  the  tents,  or  the  soldiers 
round  the  fire,  or  the  women  and  children  in  the  villages,  at  whose 
porches  he  stops  and  sings  his  simple  songs  of  love  and  beauty 
With  that  sweet  story  of  "  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield,"  he  has  founr^ 
entry  into  every  castle  and  every  hamlet  in  Europe.  Not  one  of  us, 
however  busy  or  hard,  but  once  or  twice  in  our  lives,  has  passed  an 
evening  with  him,  and  undergone  the  charm  of  his  delightful  music. 

Think  of  him  reckless,  thriftless,  vain  if  you  like  —  but  merciful, 
gentle,  generous,  full  of  love  and  pity.  He  passes  out  of  our  hfe, 
and  goes  to  render  his  account  beyond  it.  Think  of  the  poor  pen- 
sioners weeping  at  his  grave  ;  think  of  the  noble  spirits  that  admired 
and  deplored  him  ;  think  of  the  righteous  pen  that  wrote  his  epi- 
taph —  and  of  the  wonderful  and  unanimous  response  of  affection 
with  which  the  world  has  paid  back  the  love  he  gave  it.  His  humor 
dehghting  us  still :  his  song  fresh  and  beautiful  as  when  first  he 
charmed  with  it :  his  words  in  all  our  mouths  :  his  very  weaknesses 
beloved  and  famiHar  —  his  benevolent  spirit  seems  still  to  smile  upon 
us  :  to  do  gentle  kindnesses  :  to  succor  with  sweet  charity  :  to  soothe, 
caress,  and  forgive  :  to  plead  with  the  fortunate  for  the  unhappy  and 
the  poor. 


512 


HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 


THE   END   OF   THE   PLAY. 


ORIGINALLY    PRINTED    AT    THE   END   OF    "DR.     BIRCH    AND    HIS    FRIENDS. 


The  play  is  done  ;  the  curtain  drops, 

Slow  falling  to  the  prompter's  bell : 
A  moment  yet  the  actor  stops, 

And  looks  around,  to  say  farewell. 
It  is  an  irksome  word  and  task  ; 

And,  when  he's  laughed  and  said  his  say, 
He  shows,  as  he  removes  the  mask, 

A  face  that's  anything  but  gay. 


This  crowns  his  feast  with  wine  and  wit : 

Who  brought  him  to  that  mirth  and  state  ? 
His  betters,  see,  below  him  sit, 

Or  hunger  hopeless  at  the  gate. 
Who  bade  the  mud  from  Dives'  wheel 

To  spurn  the  rags  of  Lazarus  ? 
Come,  brother,  in  that  dust  we'll  kneel. 

Confessing  Heaven  that  ruled  it  thus. 


One  word,  ere  yet  the  evening  ends, 

Let's  close  it  with  a  parting  rhyme. 
And  pledge  a  hand  to  all  young  friends, 

As  fits  the  merry  Christmas  time. 
On  life's  wide  scene  you,  too,  have  parts. 

That  Fate  ere  long  shall  bid  you  pb.y  ; 
Good  night  !  with  honest  gentle  hearts 

A  kindly  greeting  go  alway  ! 


So  each  shall  mourn,  in  life's  advance. 

Dear  hopes,  dear  friends,  untimely  killed  ; 
Shall  grieve  for  many  a  forfeit  chance, 

And  longing  passion  unfulfilled. 
Amen  !  whatever  fate  be  sent, 

Pray  God  the  heart  may  kindly  glow. 
Although  the  head  with  cares  be  bent. 

And  whitened  with  the  winter  snow. 


Good  night !  —  I'd  say,  the  griefs,  the  joys. 

Just  hinted  in  this  mimic  page, 
The  triumphs  and  defeats  of  boys, 

Are  but  repeated  in  our  age. 
I'd  say,  your  woes  were  not  less  keen. 

Your  hopes  more  vain  than  those  of  men 
Your  pangs  or  pleasures  of  fifteen 

At  forty-five  played  o'er  again. 


Come  wealth  or  want,  come  good  or  ill, 

Let  young  and  old  accept  their  part, 
And  bow  before  the  Awf  il  Will, 

And  bear  it  with  an  honest  heart. 
Who  misses  or  who  wins  the  prize. 

Go,  lose  or  conquer  as  you  can  ; 
But  if  you  fail,  or  if  you  rise 

Be  each,  pray  God,  a  gentleman. 


I'd  say,  we  suffer  and  we  strive. 

Not  less  nor  more  as  men  than  boys  ; 
With  grizzled  beards  at  forty-five. 

As  erst  at  twelve  in  corduroys. 
And  if,  in  time  of  sacred  youth. 

We  learned  at  home  to  love  and  pray. 
Pray  Heaven  that  early  Love  and  Truth 

May  never  wholly  pass  away. 


A  gentleman,  or  old  or  young  ! 

(Bear  kindly  with  my  humble  lays) ; 
The  sacred  chorus  first  was  sung 

Upon  the  first  of  Christmas  days : 
The  shepherds  heard  it  overhead  — 

The  joyful  angels  raised  it  then  : 
Glory  to  Heaven  on  high,  it  said, 

And  peace  on  earth  to  gentle  men. 


And  in  the  world,  as  In  the  school, 

I'd  say,  how  fate  may  change  and  shift, 
The  prize  be  sometimes  with  the  fool. 

The  race  not  always  to  the  swift. 
The  strong  may  yield,  the  good  may  fall. 

The  great  man  be  a  vulgar  clovra. 
The  knave  be  lifted  over  all. 

The  kind  cast  pitilessly  down. 


My  song,  save  this,  is  little  worth  ; 

I  lay  the  weary  pen  aside. 
And  wish  you  health,  and  love,  and  mirtli. 

As  fits  the  solemn  Christmas-tide. 
As  fits  the  Holy  Christmas  birth. 

Be  this,  good  friends,  our  carol  still  — 
Be  peace  on  earth,  be  peace  on  earth. 

To  men  of  gentle  will. 


ROIJERT   IJROWNING.  5x3 


ROBERT   BROWNING. 

Robert  Browning  was  bom  near  London  in  1812,  and  was  educated  at  London  University. 
He  went  to  Italy  at  an  early  age,  and  studied  Italian  literature  and  history  with  an  ardor 
which  has  colored  all  his  works.  It  is  seldom  that  fate  or  inclination  brings  together  in  the 
marriage  relation  two  persons  so  thoroughly  alike  as  Robert  and  E  izabeth  Browning. 
There  are  differences  between  them  of  course,  but  they  are  of  a  sort  that  must  be  left  for 
a  more  refined  analysis  than  our  limits  allow.  Masculine  strength,  keen  insight,  hard- 
jolting  verse,  thought  buried  under  obscure  phrases,  but  relieved  by  an  occasional  grim 
humor,  and  by  some  of  the  loveliest  poetic  touches,  are  the  elements  of  Browning's  verse. 
His  poetry,  like  that  of  Mrs.  Browning,  will  have  a  limited  number  of  admirers,  and 
those  will  inevitably  include  the  most  cultivated  minds  ;  but  it  can  never  be,  and  never  was 
intended  to  be,  popular. 

HOW  THEY  BROUGHT  THE  GOOD  NEWS  FROM  GHENT  TO  AIX, 

I  SPRANG  to  the  stirrup,  and  Joris  and  he  : 

I  galloped,  Dirck  galloped,  we  galloped  all  three  ; 

"  Good  speed  !  "  cried  the  watch  as  the  gate-bolts  undrew, 

"  Speed  !  "  echoed  the  wall  to  us  galloping  through. 

Behind  shut  the  postern,  the  lights  sank  to  rest, 

And  into  the  midnight  we  galloped  abreast. 

Not  a  word  to  each  other  ;  we  kept  the  great  pace  — 
Neck  by  neck,  stride  by  stride,  never  changing  our  place  ; 
I  turned  in  my  saddle  and  made  its  girths  tight. 
Then  shortened  each  stirrup  and  set  the  pique  right, 
Rebuckled  the  check-strap,  chained  slacker  the  bit, 
Nor  galloped  less  steadily  Roland  a  whit. 

'Twas  a  moonset  at  starting  ;  but  while  we  drew  near 

Lokeren  the  cocks  crew  and  twilight  dawned  clear ; 

At  Boorn  a  great  yellow  star  came  out  to  see  ; 

At  DUffeid  'twas  morning  as  plain  as  could  be  ; 

And  from  Mecheln  church-steeple  we  heard  the  half-chime  — 

So  Joris  broke  silence  with  "  Yet  there  is  time  !  " 

At  Aerschot  up  leaped  of  a  sudden  the  sun. 
And  against  him  the  cattle  stood  black  every  one. 
To  stare  through  the  mist  at  us  galloping  past ; 
And  I  saw  my  stout  galloper  Roland  at  last, 
With  resolute  shoulders,  each  butting  away 
The  haze,  as  some  blufif  river  headland  its  spray  ; 
33 


514  HAND-BOOK   OF  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

And  his  low  head  and  crest,  just  one  sharp  ear  bent  back 
For  my  voice,  and  the  other  pricked  out  on  his  track  ; 
And  one  eye's  black  intelligence,  —  ever  that  glance 
O'er  its  white  edge  at  me,  his  own  master,  askance ; 
And  the  thick  heavy  spume-flakes,  which  aye  and  anon 
His  fierce  lips  shook  upward  in  galloping  on. 

By  Hasselt  Dirck  groaned  ;  and  cried  Joris,  "  Stay  spur ! 
Your  Roos  galloped  bravely,  the  fault's  not  in  her ; 
We'll  remember  at  Aix  ;  "  for  one  heard  the  quick  wheeze 
Of  her  chest,  saw  the  stretched  neck,  and  staggering  knees, 
And  sunk  tail,  and  horrible  heave  of  the  flank. 
As  down  on  her  haunches  she  shuddered  and  sank. 

So  we  were  left  galloping,  Joris  and  I, 

Past  Looz  and  past  Tongres,  no  cloud  in  the  sky ; 

The  broad  sun  above  laughed  a  pitiless  laugh  ; 

'Neath  our  feet  broke  the  brittle,  bright  stubble  like  chafl"; 

Till  over  by  Dalhem  a  dome-spire  sprang  white. 

And  "  Gallop,"  gasped  Joris,  "  for  Aix  is  in  sight !  " 

*^  How  they'll  greet  us  !  "  — and  all  in  a  moment  his  roan 
Rolled  neck  and  croup  over,  lay  dead  as  a  stone  ; 
And  there  was  my  Roland  to  bear  the  whole  weight 
Of  the  news  which  alone  could  save  Aix  from  her  fate, 
With  his  nostrils  like  pits  full  of  blood  to  the  brim, 
And  with  circles  of  red  for  his  eye-sockets'  rim. 

Then  I  cast  loose  my  buff-coat,  each  holster  let  fall. 

Shook  off  both  my  jack-boots,  let  go  belt  and  all. 

Stood  up  in  the  stirrup,  leaned,  patted  his  ear. 

Called  my  Roland  his  pet-name,  my  horse  without  peer  — 

Clapped  my  hands,  laughed  and  sung,  any  noise,  bad  or  good, 

Till  at  length  into  Aix  Roland  galloped  and  stood. 

And  all  I  remember  is  friends  flocking  round. 

As  I  sate  with  his  head  'twixt  my  knees  on  the  ground ; 

And  no  voice  but  was  praising  this  Roland  of  mine. 

As  I  poured  down  his  throat  our  last  measure  of  wine. 

Which  (the  burgesses  voted  by  common  consent) 

Was  no  more  than  his  due  who  brought  good  news  from  Ghent. 


ELIZABETH   BARRETT  BROWNING. 


SIS 


ELIZABETH    BARRETT   BROWNING. 

Elizabeth  Barrett  was  bom  in  London  in  1809,  and  received  a  thorough  education. 
She  began  to  write  at  an  early  age,  and  published  a  volume  of  poems  in  her  seven- 
teenth year.  Everything  from  her  pen  exhibited  great  natural  power,  but  her  genius  had  a 
singular  and  unpleasant  development ;  every  critic  admitted  the  intellect  that  animated  the 
sinewy  verse,  but  none  except  earnest  students  cared  to  undertake  the  necessary  labor  to 
read  it.  The  solution  of  a  mathematical  problem,  or  the  comprehension  of  a  proposition  in 
mechanics  or  metaphysics,  might  give  an  exalted  pleasure  in  the  mastery,  but  we  should 
hardly  consider  mathematics  or  any  other  science  a  part  of  literature,  or  their  perusal  a  lit- 
erary pleasure.  Mrs.  Browning  by  her  later  poems  has  gained  a  right  to  a  more  gen- 
eral recognition,  but  a  certain  obscurity  hangs  over  her  best  productions ;  and  her  sin- 
cere admirers  constitute  a  circle  of  friends  that,  if  fit,  are  certainly  few.  The  turning-point 
in  her  life,  as  well  as  in  her  poetical  career,  was  her  marriage  with  the  poet  Robert  Brown- 
ing, which  occurred  in  1846,  on  her  recovery  from  a  long  and  severe  sickness.  In  1851  she 
published  a  poem  called  Casa  Guidi  Windows,  upon  modern  Italian  subjects  ;  this  was  fol- 
lowed, in  1856,  by  Aurora  Leigh,  a  narrative  poem.  Among  all  thoughtful  and  cultured 
persons  her  poems  must  hold  a  very  high  rank  ;  though  sealed  to  casual  and  unreflecting 
readers,  they  have  an  innate  vigor  and  a  spiritual  insight  very  rare  in  any  author.  And  this 
does  not  refer  merely  to  intellectual  subjects  ;  even  the  passion  of  love  has  had  a  new  and 
positive  illumination  in  her  verse.  The  characteristics  we  have  endeavored  to  describe  are 
sufficient  to  place  her  most  striking  poems  outside  of  a  merely  elementary  course  of  read- 
ing ;  but  they  will  not  be  forgotten  by  the  maturer  student ;  and  whoever  enjoys  the  contact 
with  a  masculine  mind  of  the  highest  order  cannot  neglect  them. 

Mrs.  Browning  died  at  Florence  in  1861. 

THE   SEA-MEW. 


How  joyously  the  young  sea-mew 
Lay  dreaming  on  the  waters  blue. 
Whereon  our  little  bark  had  thrown 
A  forward  shade  —  the  only  one  — 
(But  shadows  aye  will  man  pursue  I) 


Familiar  with  the  waves,  and  free, 
As  if  their  own  white  foam  were  he : 
His  heart  upon  the  heart  of  ocean. 
Learning  all  its  mystic  motion, 
And  throbbing  to  the  throbbing  sea  ! 

III. 

And  such  a  brightness  in  his  eye, 
As  if  the  ocean  and  the  sky 
Within  him  had  lit  up  and  nurst 
A  soul  God  gave  him  not  at  first, 
To  comprehend  their  majesty. 


We  were  not  cruel,  yet  did  sunder 


And  bound  it  —  while  his  fearless  ej'es 
Shone  up  to  ours  in  calm  surprise. 
As  deeming  us  some  ocean  wonder  ! 


We  bore  our  ocean-bird  unto 
A  grassy  place,  where  he  might  view 
The  flowers  bending  to  the  bees. 
The  waving  of  the  tall  green  trees, 
The  falling  of  the  silver  dew. 


But  flowers  of  earth  were  pale  to  him 
Who  had  seen  the  rainbow  fishes  swim  ; 
And  when  earth's  dew  around  him  lay. 
He  thought  of  ocean's  winged  spray, 
And  his  eye  waxed  sad  and  dim\ 


Tlie  green  trees  round  him  only  made 
A  prison,  with  their  darksome  shade ; 
And  drooped  his  wing,  and  moum6d  he 
For  his  own  boundless,  glittering  sea,  — 


His  white  wing  from  the  blue  waves  under.        Albeit  he  knew  not  they  could  fade  ! 


5l6  HAND-BOOK   OF  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 


Then  one  her  gladsome  face  did  bring,  He  lay  down  in  his  grief  to  die. 

Her  gentle  voice's  murmuring,  (First  looking  to  the  sea-like  sky 

In  ocean's  stead  his  heart  to  move.  That  hath  no  waves  !)  because,  alas ! 

And  teach  him  what  was  human  love,  —  Our  human  touch  did  on  him  pass, 

He  thought  it  a  strange,  mournful  thing  !  And  with  our  touch,  our  agony. 


CHARLES   DICKENS. 

Charles  Dickens  was  bom  at  Portsmouth  in  1812,  where  his  father,  a  clerk  in  the  Navy 
Pay  office,  then  resided.  At  seven  years  of  age  he  was  sent  to  a  private  school ;  and  on  the 
completion  of  his  course,  his  father  wished  him  to  follow  the  prof-ission  of  law  •  but  this 
was  not  to  the  youth's  liking,  and  he  prepared  himself  to  become  a  parliamentary  reporter. 
Not  much  is  known  as  to  the  thoroughness  or  extent  of  the  education  he  received,  but  his 
reading  was  of  a  sort  to  foster  and  develop  his  natural  tastes.  In  David  Copperfield  he 
mentions  the  novels  of  Smollett,  Fielding,  Goldsmith,  Da  Foe,  Cervantes,  Le  Sage,  and 
others,  in  a  tone  of  familiar  affection  which  only  a  long  intimacy  could  have  inspired. 

His  first  sketches  were  published  in  the  Monthly  Magazine,  and  were  signed  "Boz." 
These  were  collected  in  1836,  and  issued  in  two  volumes  with  illustrations  by  Cruikshank. 
The  Pickwick  Papers  appeared  in  monthly  parts  in  1836-7,  and  were  received  with  an  en- 
thusiasm that  increased  to  the  end  of  the  series.  The  publishers,  it  is  said,  made  a  profit 
of  twenty  thousand  pounds  on  this  single  work ;  the  author  received  thirty-five  hun- 
dred pounds ;  but,  as  he  had  agreed  to  write  for  fifteen  pounds  a  number,  he  was  munifi- 
cently overpaid.  All  of  Dickens's  novels  have  some  traces  of  his  genius,  both  in  the 
conception  of  humorous  or  grotesque  characters  and  in  vivid  descriptive  passages.  But 
the  peculiar  quality  of  his  humor,  and  the  flowering  of  his  genius  in  characterization,  are  to 
be  seen  only  in  "Pickwick."  And,  though  it  is  written  with  little  more  of  plot  than  would 
suffice  for  a  day's  ramble  in  the  country,  it  has  almost  the  effect  of  a  perfect  work  of  art  in 
its  natural  order  of  events.  Almost  every  one  of  Dickens's  novels  appears  to  have  been 
written  with  a  purpose.  It  is  the  "burden"  of  a  modern  prophet  against  some  form  of 
wrong.  Thus  in  Oliver  Twist  there  are  weighty  suggestions  for  parochial  officers ;  in  Nich- 
olas Nickleby  there  is  a  terrible  exposition  of  the  brutalities  practised  in  certain  cheap 
boarding-schools ;  the  moral  of  Bamaby  Rudge  is  directed  against  capital  punishment ; 
Bleak  House  has,  coiled  up  in  its  dim  chambers,  an  interminable  spider's-web  of  a  chancery 
suit.  And  in  every  one  there  is  something  of  that  spirit  of  cheerfulness,  kindness,  and 
charity,  which  has  found  so  touching  an  expression  in  the  Christmas  Carol. 

It  would  take  us  far  beyond  proper  limits  to  give  an  appreciative  notice  of  the  characters 
he  has  created.  His  works  furnish  a  larger  number  of  sharply-drawn  and  easily-recognized 
figures  than  can  be  found  in  the  pages  of  any  English  author,  not  excepting  Shakespeare. 
But  Dickens  often  incarnates  a  passion,  a  loveliness,  a  deformity,  a  trick  of  manner,  or  a 
whim.  His  marked  characters  lack  the  rounded  symmetry  of  life,  and,  fascinating  as  they 
may  be,  they  are  always  in  a  measure  "theatrical."  But,  though  he  inclines  to  sketching 
the  nobler  traits  of  mankind,  it  is  singular  that  he  has  never  drawn  one  character  of  either 
sex  that  is  highly  gifted,  personally  beautiful,  and  thoroughly  noble  at  the  same  time. 
Not  one  of  his  countless  youths  or  maidens  comes  to  us  with  the  radiance  with  which 
Shakespeare,  Scott,  or  Goethe  has  painted  the  kindling  of  genius  and  the  glow  of  feeling 
in  the  young  and  the  beautiful.  As  pictures  of  Englishmen,  the  best  and  the  vilest,  — as 
sketches  of  odd  but  not  wholly  incredible  traits,  and  of  society  among  the  middle  and  lower 
classes,  — they  are  as  wonderful  as  the  plates  of  Hogarth.  His  novels  have  had  more  read- 
ers, probably,  than  any  published  in  our  language. 


CHARLES    DICKENS.  51? 

He  visited  the  United  States  in  1842,  and  wrote  an  account  of  his  tour  under  the  title  of 
American  Notes.  His  last  visit  in  1868  was  almost  triumphal.  His  readings  were  thronged 
by  cultivated  people  in  every  large  city.  Andafter  his  sudden  death  in  June  of  the  next  year, 
many  a  father,  with  dimmed  eyes,  charged  his  favorite  child  to  remember  when  she  came  to 
be  old  to  tell  her  grandchildren  that  she  heard  Charles  Dickens  read  the  Christmas  Carol. 

A   CHRISTMAS   CAROL. 

IN    FOUR   STAVES. 

[As  abridged  by  the  Author ;  from  the  Author's  edition,  by  permission  of  Messrs.  J.  R 
Osgood  &  Co.] 

STAVE   ONE.  —  MARLEY'S   GHOST. 

Marley  was  dead,  to  begin  with.  There  is  no  doubt  whateve* 
about  that.  The  register  of  his  burial  was  signed  by  the  clergyman, 
the  clerk,  the  undertaker,  and  the  chief  mourner.  Scrooge  signed 
it.  And  Scrooge's  name  was  good  upon  'Change  for  anything  he 
chose  to  put  his  hand  to. 

Old  Marley  was  as  dead  as  a  door-nail. 

Scrooge  knew  he  was  dead  .''  Of  course  he  did.  How  could  it  be 
otherwise  ?  Scrooge  and  he  were  partners  for  I  don't  know  how 
many^years.  Scrooge  was  his  sole  executor,  his  sole  administrator, 
his  sole  assign,  his  sole  residuary  legatee,  his  sole  friend,  his  sole 
mourner. 

Scrooge  never  painted  out  old  Marley's  name,  however.  There  it 
yet  stood,  years  afterwards,  above  the  warehouse  door — Scrooge 
and  Marley.  The  firm  was  known  as  Scrooge  and  Marley.  Some- 
times people  new  to  the  business  called  Scrooge  Scrooge,  and  some- 
times Marley.  He  answered  to  both  names.  It  was  all  the  same 
to  him. 

O  !  But  he  was  a  tight-fisted  hand  at  the  grindstone,  was  Scrooge  ! 
a  squeezing,  wrenching,  grasping,  scraping,  clutching,  covetous  old 
sinner !  External  heat  and  cold  had  little  influence  on  him.  No 
warmth  could  warm,  no  cold  could  chill  him.  No  wind  that  blew 
was  bitterer  than  he,  no  falling  snow  was  more  intent  upon  its  pur- 
pose, no  pelting  rain  less  open  to  entreaty.  Foul  weather  didn't 
know  where  to  have  him.  The  heaviest  rain  and  snow  and  hail  and 
sleet  could  boast  of  the  advantage  over  him  in  only  one  respect  — 
they  often  "  came  down  "  handsomely,  and  Scrooge  never  did. 

Nobody  ever  stopped  him  in  the  street  to  say,  with  gladsome 
looks,  "  My  dear  Scrooge,  how  are  you  ?  When  will  you  come  to 
see  me  ?  "  No  beggars  implored  him  to  bestow  a  trifle,  no  children 
asked  him  what  it  was  o'clock,  no  man  or  woman  ever  once  in  all 


5l8  HAND-BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

his  life  inquired  tiie  way  to  such  and  such  a  place,  of  Scrooge.  Even 
the  blindmen's  dogs  appeared  to  know  him  ;  and  when  they  saw  him 
coming  on,  would  tug  their  owners  into  doorways  and  up  courts  ; 
and  then  would  wag  their  tails  as  though  they  said,  "  No  eye  at  all 
is  better  than  an  evil  eye,  dark  master  !  " 

But  what  did  Scrooge  care  !  It  was  the  very  thing  he  liked.  To 
edge  his  way  along  the  crowded  paths  of  life,  warning  all  human 
sympathy  to  keep  its  distance,  was  what  the  knowing  ones  call 
"nuts"  to  Scrooge. 

Once  upon  a  time  —  of  all  the  good  days  in  the  year,  upon  a 
Christmas  Eve  —  old  Scrooge  sat  busy  in  his  counting-house.  It 
was  cold,  bleak,  biting,  foggy  weather  ;  and  the  city  clocks  had  only 
just  gone  three,  but  it  was  quite  dark  already. 

The  door  of  Scrooge's  counting-house  was  open,  that  he  might 
keep  his  eye  upon  his  clerk,  who,  in  a  dismal  little  cell  beyond,  a 
sort  of  tank,  was  copying  letters.  Scrooge  had  a  very  small  fire, 
but  the  clerk's  fire  was  so  very  much  smaller  that  it  looked  like  one 
coal.  But  he  couldn't  replenish  it,  for  Scrooge  kept  the  coal-box  in 
his  own  room  ;  and  so  surely  as  the  clerk  came  in  with  the  shovel, 
the  master  predicted  that  it  would  be  necessary  for  them  to  part. 
Wherefore  the  clerk  put  on  his  white  comforter,  and  tried  to  warm 
himself  at  the  candle  ;  in  which  effort,  not  being  a  man  of  a  strong 
imagination,  he  failed. 

"  A  merry  Christmas,  uncle  !  God  save  you  !  "  cried  a  cheerful 
voice.  It  was  the  voice  of  Scrooge's  nephew,  who  came  upon  him 
so  quickly  that  this  was  the  first  intimation  Scrooge  had  of  his  ap- 
proach. 

"  Bah  !  "  said  Scrooge  ;  "  humbug  !  " 

"  Christmas  a  humbug,  uncle  !    You  don't  mean  that,  I  am  sure  ?  " 

"  I  do.  Out  upon  merry  Christmas  !  What's  Christmas  time  to 
you  but  a  time  for  paying  bills  without  money ;  a  time  for  finding 
yourself  a  year  older,  and  not  an  hour  richer  ;  a  time  for  balancing 
your  books  and  having  every  item  in  'em  through  a  round  dozen  of 
months  presented  dead  against  you  ?  If  I  had  my  will,  every  idiot 
who  goes  about  with  '  Merry  Christmas  '  on  his  lips  should  be  boiled 
with  his  own  pudding,  and  buried  with  a  stake  of  holly  through  his 
heart.     He  should  !  " 

"  Uncle  ! " 

"  Nephew,  keep  Christmas  in  your  own  way,  and  let  me  keep  it 
in  mine." 

"  Keep  it !     But  you  don't  keep  it." 


CHARLES   DICKENS.  519 

"  Let  me  leave  it  alone,  then.  Much  good  may  it  do  you  !  Much 
good  it  has  ever  done  you  !  " 

"  There  are  many  things  from  which  I  might  have  derived  good, 
by  which  I  have  not  profited,  I  dare  say,  Christmas  among  the  rest. 
But  I  am  sure  I  have  always  thought  of  Christmas  time,  when  it 
has  come  round,  — apart  from  the  veneration  due  to  its  sacred  ori- 
gin, if  anything  belonging  to  it  can  be  apart  from  that,  — as  a  good 
time  ;  a  kind,  forgiving,  charitable,  pleasant  time  ;  the  only  time  I 
know  of,  in  the  long  calendar  of  the  year,  when  men  and  women 
seem  by  one  consent  to  open  their  shut-up  hearts  freely,  and  to  think 
of  people  below  them  as  if  they  really  were  fellow-travellers  to  the 
grave,  and  not  another  race  of  creatures  bound  on  other  journeys. 
And  therefore,  uncle,  though  it  has  never  put  a  scrap  of  gold  or 
silver  in  my  pocket,  I  believe  that  it  has  done  me  good,  and  will  do 
me  good  ;  and  I  say,  God  bless  it  !  " 

The  clerk  in  the  tank  involuntarily  applauded. 

"  Let  me  hear  another  sound  from  j^//,"  said  Scrooge,  "  and  you'll 
keep  your  Christmas  by  losing  your  situation  !  You're  quite  a  pow- 
erful speaker,  sir,"  he  added,  turning  to  his  nephew.  "  I  wonder 
you  don't  go  into  Parliament." 

"  Don't  be  angry,  uncle.     Come  !     Dine  with  us  to-morrow." 

Scrooge  said  that  he  would  see  him  —  yes,  indeed  he  did.  He 
went  the  whole  length  of  the  expression,  and  said  that  he  would  see 
him  in  that  extremity  first. 

"  But  why  ?  "  cried  Scrooge's  nephew.     "  Why  1 " 

"  Why  did  you  get  married  .''  " 

"  Because  I  fell  in  love." 

"  Because  you  fell  in  love  !  "  growled  Scrooge,  as  if  that  were  the 
only  one  thing  in  the  world  more  ridiculous  than  a  merry  Christmas. 
"  Good  afternoon  !  " 

"  Nay,  uncle,  but  you  never  came  to  see  me  before  that  happened. 
Why  give  it  as  a  reason  for  not  coming  now  ? " 

"  Good  afternoon." 

"  I  want  nothing  from  you ;  I  ask  nothing  of  you  ;  why  cannot 
we  be  friends  ?  " 

"  Good  afternoon." 

"  I  am  sorry,  with  all  my  heart,  to  find  you  so  resolute.  We  have 
never  had  any  quarrel,  to  which  I  have  been  a  party.  But  I  have 
made  the  trial  in  homage  to  Christmas,  and  I'll  keep  my  Christmas 
humor  to  the  last.     So  A  Merry  Christmas,  uncle  !  " 

"  Good  afternoon  !  " 


520  HAND-BOOK   OF  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

"  And  A  Happy  New  Year  !  " 

"  Good  afternoon  !  " 

His  nephew  left  the  room  without  an  angry  word,  notwithstand- 
ing. The  clerk,  in  letting  Scrooge's  nephew  out,  had  let  two  other 
people  in.  They  were  portly  gentlemen,  pleasant  to  behold,  and 
now  stood,  with  their  hats  off,  in  Scrooge's  office.  They  had  books 
and  papers  in  their  hands,  and  bowed  to  him. 

"  Scrooge  and  Marley's,  I  believe,"  said  one  of  the  gentlemen, 
referring  to  his  list.  "  Have  I  the  pleasure  of  addressing  Mr.  Scrooge, 
or  Mr.  Marley  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Marley  has  been  dead  these  seven  years.'  He  died  seven 
years  ago,  this  very  night." 

"At  this  festive  season  of  the  year,  Mr.  Scrooge,"  said  the  gen- 
tleman, taking  up  a  pen,  "  it  is  more  than  usually  desirable  that  we 
should  make  some  slight  provision  for  the  poor  and  destitute,  who 
suffer  greatly  at  the  present  time.  Many  thousands  are  in  want  of 
common  necessaries ;  hundreds  of  thousands  are  in  want  of  com- 
mon comforts,  sir." 

"  Are  there  no  prisons  ?  " 

"  Plenty  of  prisons.  But  under  the  impression  that  they  scarcely 
furnish  Christian  cheer  of  mind  or  body  to  the  unoffending  multi- 
tude, a  few  of  us  are  endeavoring  to  raise  a  fund  to  buy  the  poor 
some  meat,  and  drink,  and  means  of  warmth.  We  choose  this  time, 
because  it  is  a  time,  of  all  others,  when  Want  is  keenly  felt,  and 
Abundance  rejoices.     What  shall  I  put  you  down  for  ?  " 

"  Nothing !  " 

"  You  wish  to  be  anonymous  ?  " 

"  I  wish  to  be  left  alone.  Since  you  ask  me  what  I  wish,  gentle- 
men, that  is  my  answer.  I  don't  make  merry  myself  at  Christmas, 
and  I  can't  afford  to  make  idle  people  merry.  I  help  to  support  the 
prisons  and  the  workhouses,  —  they  cost  enough,  —  and  those  who 
are  badly  off  must  go  there." 

"  Many  can't  go  there  ;  and  many  would  rather  die." 

"If  they  would  rather  die,  they  had  better  do  it,  and  decrease  the 
surplus  population." 

At  length  the  hour  of  shutting  up  the  counting-house  arrived. 
With  an  ill  will  Scrooge,  dismounting  from  his  stool,  tacitly  admit- 
ted the  fact  to  the  expectant  clerk  in  the  tank,  who  instantly  snuffed 
his  candle  out,  and  put  on  his  hat. 

"  You'll  want  all  day  to-morrow,  I  suppose  ?  '* 

"  If  quite  convenient,  sir." 


CHARLES   DICKENS.  52 1 

"  It's  not  convenient,  and  it's  not  fair.  If  I  was  to  stop  half  a  crown 
for  it,  you'd  think  yourself  mightily  ill  used,  I'll  be  bound  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  And  yet  you  don't  think  me  ill  used,  when  I  pay  a  day's  wages 
for  no  work." 

"  It's  only  once  a  year,  sir." 

"  A  poor  excuse  for  picking  a  man's  pocket  every  twenty-fifth  of 
December  !  But  I  suppose  you  must  have  the  whole  day.  Be  here 
all  the  earlier  next  morning." 

The  clerk  promised  that  he  would  ;  and  Scrooge  walked  out  with 
a  growl.  The  office  was  closed  in  a  twinkling,  and  the  clerk,  with 
the  long  ends  of  his  white  comforter  dangling  below  his  waist  (for 
he  boasted  no  great-coat),  went  down  a  slide,  at  the  end  of  a  lane 
of  boys,  twenty  times,  in  honor  of  its  being  Christmas  Eve,  and 
then  ran  home  as  hard  as  he  could  pelt,  to  play  at  blindman's-buff. 

Scrooge  took  his  melancholy  dinner  in  his  usual  melancholy  tav- 
ern ;  and,  having  read  all  the  newspapers,  and  beguiled  the  rest  of 
the  evening  with  his  banker's  book,  went  home  to  bed.  He  lived  in 
chambers  which  had  once  belonged  to  his  deceased  partner.  They 
were  a  gloomy  suite  of  rooms,  in  a  lowering  pile  of  building  up  a 
yard.  The  building  was  old  enough  now,  and  dreary  enough ;  for 
nobody  lived  in  it  but  Scrooge,  the  other  rooms  being  all  let  out  as 
offices. 

Now  it  is  a  fact,  that  there  was  nothing  at  all  particular  about  the 
knocker  on  the  door  of  this  house,  except  that  it  was  very  large  ; 
also,  that  Scrooge  had  seen  it,  night  and  morning,  during  his  whole 
residence  in  that  place  ;  also,  that  Scrooge  had  as  little  of.  what  is 
called  fancy  about  him  as  any  man  in  the  city  of  London.  And  yet 
Scrooge,  having  his  key  in  the  lock  of  the  door,  saw  in  the  knocker, 
without  its  undergoing  any  intermediate  process  of  change,  not  a 
knocker,  but  Marley's  face. 

Marley's  face,  with  a  dismal  light  about  it,  like  a  bad  lobster  in  a 
dark  cellar.  It  was  not  angry  or  ferocious,  but  it  looked  at  Scrooge 
as  Marley  used  to  look  —  with  ghostly  spectacles  turned  up  upon  its 
ghostly  forehead. 

As  Scrooge  looked  fixedly  at  this  phenomenon,  it  was  a  knocker 
again.     He  said,  "  Pooh,  pooh  !  "  and  closed  the  door  with  a  bang. 

The  sound  resounded  through  the  house  like  thunder.  Every 
room  above,  and  every  cask  in  the  wine-merchant's  cellars  below, 
appeared  to  have  a  separate  peal  of  echoes  of  its  own.  Scrooge 
was  not  a  man  to  be  frightened  by  echoes.     He  fastened  the  door, 


522  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

and  walked  across  the  hall,  and  up  the  stairs.  Slowly  too,  trimming 
his  candle  as  he  went. 

Up  Scrooge  went,  not  caring  a  button  for  its  being  very  dark. 
Darkness  is  cheap,  and  Scrooge  liked  it.  But  before  he  shut  his 
heavy  door,  he  walked  through  his  rooms  to  see  that  all  was  right. 
He  had  just  enough  recollection  of  the  face  to  desire  to  do  that. 

Sitting-room,  bed-room,  lumber-room,  all  as  they  should  be.  No- 
body under  the  table,  nobody  under  the  sofa ;  a  small  fire  in  the 
grate ;  spoon  and  basin  ready ;  and  the  little  saucepan  of  gruel 
(Scrooge  had  a  cold  in  his  head)  upon  the  hob.  Nobody  under  the 
bed ;  nobody  in  the  closet ;  nobody  in  his  dressing-gown,  which 
was  hanging  up  in  a  suspicious  attitude  against  the  wall.  Lumber- 
room  as  usual.  Old  fire-guard,  old  shoes,  two  fish-baskets,  washing- 
stand  on  three  legs,  and  a  poker. 

Quite  satisfied,  he  closed  his  door,  and  locked  himself  in  ;  double- 
locked  himself  in,  which  was  not  his  custom.  Thus  secured  against 
surprise,  he  took  off  his  cravat,  put  on  his  dressing-gown  and  slip- 
pers and  his  nightcap,  and  sat  down  before  the  very  low  fire  to  take 
his  gruel. 

As  he  threw  his  head  back  in  the  chair,  his  glance  happened  to 
rest  upon  a  bell,  a  disused  bell,  that  hung  in  the  room,  and  commu- 
nicated, for  some  purpose  now  forgotten,  with  a  chamber  in  the 
highest  story  of  the  building.  It  was  with  great  astonishment,  and 
with  a  strange,  inexplicable  dread,  that,  as  he  looked,  he  saw  this 
bell  begin  to  swing.  Soon  it  rang  out  loudly,  and  so  did  every  bell 
in  the  house. 

This  was  succeeded  by  a  clanking  noise,  deep  down  below,  as  if 
some  person  were  dragging  a  heavy  chain  over  the  casks  in  the  wine- 
merchant's  cellar. 

Then  he  heard  the  noise  much  louder  on  the  floors  below ;  then 
coming  up  the  stairs  ;  then  coming  straight  towards  his  door. 

It  came  on  through  the  heavy  door,  and  a  spectre  passed  into  the 
room  before  his  eyes.  And  upon  its  coming  in,  the  dying  flame, 
leaped  up,  as  though  it  cried,  "  I  know  him  !     Marley's  ghost !  " 

The  same  face,  the  very  same.  Marley  in  his  pigtail,  usual  waist- 
coat, tights,  and  boots.  His  body  was  transparent ;  so  that  Scrooge, 
observing  him,  and  looking  through  his  waistcoat,  could  see  the  two 
buttons  on  his  coat  behind.       ^ 

Scrooge  had  often  heard  it  said  that  Marley  had  no  bowels,  but 
he  had  never  beheved  it  until  now. 

No,  nor  did  he  believe  it  even  now.    Though  he  looked  the  phan- 


CHARLES   DICKENS.  523 

torn  through  and  through,  and  saw  it  standing  before  him, — though 
he  felt  the  chilHng  influence  of  its  death-cold  eyes,  and  noticed  the 
very  texture  of  the  folded  kerchief  bound  about  its  head  and  chin, 
—  he  was  still  incredulous. 

"  How  now  !  '  said  Scrooge,  caustic  and  cold  as  ever.  "  What  do 
you  want  with  me  ?  " 

"  Much  !  "  —  Marley's  voice,  no  doubt  about  it. 

"  Who  are  you  ?  " 

"  Ask  me  who  I  was.''^ 

"  Who  were  you,  then  ?  " 

"  In  life  I  was  your  partner,  Jacob  Marley." 

"  Can  you  —  can  you  sit  down  ?  " 

"  I  can." 

"  Do  it,  then." 

Scrooge  asked  the  question,  because  he  didn't  know  whether  a 
ghost  so  transparent  might  find  himself  in  a  condition  to  take  a 
chair ;  and  felt  that,  in  the  event  of  its  being  impossible,  it  might 
involve  the  necessity  of  an  embarrassing  explanation.  But  the 
ghost  sat  down  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  fireplace,  as  if  he  were 
quite  used  to  it. 

"  You  don't  beheve  in  me." 

"I  don't." 

"  What  evidence  would  you  have  of  my  reality  beyond  that  of 
your  senses  ? " 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  Why  do  you  doubt  your  senses  ?  " 

"Because  a  httle  thing  affects  them.  A  shght  disorder  of  the 
stomach  makes  them  cheats.  You  may  be  an  undigested  bit  of 
beef,  a  blot  of  mustard,  a  crumb  of  cheese,  a  fragment  of  an  under- 
done potato.  There's  more  of  gravy  than  of  grave  about  you,  what- 
ever you  are  ! " 

Scrooge  was  not  much  in  the  habit  of  cracking  jokes,  nor  did  he 
feel  in  his  heart  by  any  means  waggish  then.  The  truth  is,  that  he 
tried  to  be  smart,  as  a  means  of  distracting  his  own  attention,. and 
keeping  down  his  horror. 

But  how  much  greater  was  his  horror  when,  the  phantom  taking 
off  the  bandage  round  its  head,  as  if  it  were  too  warm  to  wear  in- 
doors, its  lower  jaw  dropped  down  upon  its  breast ! 

"  Mercy  !  Dreadful  apparition,  why  do  you  trouble  me  ?  Why 
do  spirits  walk  the  earth,  and  why  do  they  come  to  me  ?  " 

"  It  is  required  of  every  man,  that  the  spirit  within  him  should 


524  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

walk  abroad  among  his  fellow-men,  and  travel  far  and  wide  ;  and  if 
that  spirit  goes  not  forth  in  life,  it  is  condemned  to  do  so  after  death. 
I  cannot  tell  you  all  I  would.  A  very  little  more  is  permitted  to  me. 
I  cannot  rest,  I  cannot  stay,  I  cannot  linger  anywhere.  My  spirit 
never  walked  beyond  our  counting-house  —  mark  me  !  —  in  life  my 
spirit  never  roved  beyond  the  narrow  limits  of  our  money-changing 
hole  ;  and  weary  journeys  lie  before  me  !  " 

"  Seven  years  dead.  And  travelling  all  the  time  ?  You  travel 
fast.?" 

"  On  the  wings  of  the  wind." 

"  You  might  have  got  over  a  great  quantity  of  ground  in  seven 
years." 

"  O,  blind  man,  blind  man  !  not  to  know  that  ages  of  incessant 
labor  by  immortal  creatures  for  this  earth  must  pass  into  eternity 
before  the  good  of  which  it  is  susceptible  is  all  developed.  Not  to 
know  that  any  Christian  spirit  working  kindly  in  its  little  sphere, 
whatever  it  may  be,  will  find  its  mortal  life  too  short  for  its  vast 
means  of  usefulness.  Not  to  know  that  no  space  of  regret  can 
make  amends  for  one  life's  opportunities  misused  !  Yet  I  was  like 
this  man  ;  I  once  was  like  this  man  !  " 

"  But  you  were  always  a  good  man  of  business,  Jacob,"  faltered 
Scrooge,  who  now  began  to  apply  this  to  himself. 

"  Business  !  "  cried  the  Ghost,  wringing  its  hands  again.  "  Man- 
kind was  my  business.  The  common  welfare  was  my  business  ; 
charity,  mercy,  forbearance,  benevolence,  were  all  my  business. 
The  dealings  of  my  trade  were  but  a  drop  of  water  in  the  compre- 
hensive ocean  of  my  business  !  " 

Scrooge  was  very  much  dismayed  to  hear  the  spectre  going  on  at 
this  rate,  and  began  to  quake  exceedingly. 

"  Hear  me  !     My  time  is  nearly  gone." 

"  I  will.  But  don't  be  hard  upon  me  !  Don't  be  flowery,  Jacob  ! 
Pray ! " 

"  I  am  here  to-night  to  warn  you  that  you  have  yet  a  chance  and 
hope  of  escaping  my  fate.  A  chance  and  hope  of  my  procuring, 
Ebenezer." 

"  You  were  always  a  good  friend  to  me.     Thank'ee  !  " 

"  You  will  be  haunted  by  Three  Spirits." 

"Is  that  the  chance  and  hope  you  mentioned,  Jacob .''  I  —  I  think 
I'd  rather  not." 

"  Without  their  visits,  you  cannot  hope  to  shun  the  path  I  tread. 
Expect  the  first  to-morrow  night,  when  the  bell  tolls  One.     Expect 


CHARLES   DICKENS.  525 

the  second  on  the  next  night  at  the  same  hour.  The  third,  upon 
the  next  night,  when  the  last  stroke  of  Twelve  has  ceased  to  vibrate. 
Look  to  see  me  no  more ;  and  look  that,  for  your  own  sake,  you  re- 
member what  has  passed  between  us  !  " 

It  walked  backward  from  him  ;  and  at  every  step  it  took,  the  win- 
dow raised  itself  a  little,  so  that,  when  the  apparition  reached  it,  it 
was  wide  open. 

Scrooge  closed  the  window,  and  examined  the  door  by  which  the 
Ghost  had  entered.  It  was  double-locked,  as  he  had  locked  it  with 
his  own  hands,  and  the  bolts  were  undisturbed.  Scrooge  tried  to 
say,  "  Humbug ! "  but  stopped  at  the  first  syllable.  And  being, 
from  the  emotion  he  had  undergone,  or  the  fatigues  of  the  day,  or 
his  glimpse  of  the  invisible  world,  or  the  dull  conversation  of  the 
Ghost,  or  the  lateness  of  the  hour,  much  in  need  of  repose,  he  went 
straight  to  bed,  without  undressing,  and  fell  asleep  on  the  instant. 

STAVE   TWO.  —  THE   FIRST   OF   THE   THREE   SPIRITS. 

When  Scrooge  awoke,  it  was  so  dark,  that,  looking  out  of  bed,  he 
could  scarcely  distinguish  the  transparent  window  from  the  opaque 
walls  of  his  chamber,  until  suddenly  the  church  clock  tolled  a  deep, 
dull,  hollow,  melancholy  ONE. 

Light  flashed  up  in  the  room  upon  the  instant,  and  the  curtains 
of  his  bed  were  drawn  aside  by  a  strange  fiigure  —  like  a  child  :  yet 
not  so  like  a  child  as  like  an  old  man,  viewed  through  some  super- 
natural medium,  which  gave  him  the  appearance  of  having  receded 
from  the  view,  and  being  diminished  to  a  child's  proportions.  Its 
hair,  which  hung  about  its  neck  and  down  its  back,  was  white  as  if 
with  age  ;  and  yet  the  face  had  not  a  wrinkle  in  it,  and  the  tenderest 
bloom  was  on  the  skin.  It  held  a  branch  of  fresh  green  holly  in  its 
hand ;  and,  in  singular  contradiction  of  that  wintry  emblem,  had  its 
dress  trimmed  with  summer  flowers.  But  the  strangest  thing  about 
it  was,  that  from  the  crown  of  its  head  there  sprung  a  bright,  clear 
jet  of  light,  by  which  all  this  was  visible  ;  and  which  was  doubtless 
the  occasion  of  its  using,  in  its  duller  moments,  a  great  extinguisher 
for  a  cap,  which  it  now  held  under  its  arm. 

"  Are  you  the  Spirit,  sir,  whose  coming  was  foretold  to  me  ?  " 

"  I  am  !  " 

"  Who  and  what  are  you  ?  " 

"  I  am  the  Ghost  of  Christmas  Past." 

"Long  past?" 


526  HAND-BOOK   OF  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

"No.  Your  past.  The  things  that  you  will  see  with  me  are 
shadows  of  the  things  that  have  been  ;  they  will  have  no  conscious- 
ness of  us." 

Scrooge  then  made  bold  to  inquire  what  business  brought  him 
there, 

"Your  welfare.     Rise,  and  walk  with  me  !  " 

It  would  have  been  in  vain  for  Scrooge  to  plead  that  the  weather 
and  the  hour  were  not  adapted  to  pedestrian  purposes  ;  that  the  bed 
was  warm,  and  the  thermometer  a  long  way  below  freezing ;  that  he 
was  clad  but  lightly  in  his  slippers,  dressing-gown,  and  nightcap  ;  and 
that  he  had  a  cold  upon  him  at  that  time.  The  grasp,  though  gentle 
as  a  woman's  hand,  was  not  to  be  resisted.  He  rose ;  but  finding 
that  the  Spirit  made  towards  the  window,  clasped  its  robe  in  sup- 
plication. 

"  I  am  a  mortal,  and  liable  to  fall." 

"  Bear  but  a  touch  of  my  hand  there,''''  said  the  Spirit,  laying  it 
upon  his  heart,  "  and  you  shall  be  upheld  in  more  than  this  !  " 

As  the  words  were  spoken,  they  passed  through  the  wall,  and 
stood  in  the  busy  thoroughfares  of  a  city.  It  was  made  plain 
enough  by  the  dressing  of  the  shops  that  here,  too,  it  was  Christmas 
time. 

The  Ghost  stopped  at  a  certain  warehouse  door,  and  asked 
Scrooge  if  he  knew  it. 

"  Know  it !     Was  I  apprenticed  here  !  " 

They  went  in.  At  sight  of  an  old  gentleman  in  a  Welsh  wig,  sit- 
ting behind  such  a  high  desk  that,  if  he  had  been  two  inches  taller, 
he  must  have  knocked  his  head  against  the  ceiling,  Scrooge  cried  in 
great  excitement,  "  Why,  it's  old  Fezziwig !  Bless  his  heart,  it's 
Fezziwig,  alive  again  !  " 

Old  Fezziwig  laid  down  his  pen,  and  looked  up  at  the  clock,  which 
pointed  to  the  hour  of  seven.  He  rubbed  his  hands  ;  adjusted  his 
capacious  waistcoat ;  laughed  all  over  himself,  from  his  shoes  to  his 
organ  of  benevolence ;  and  called  out  in  a  comfortable,  oily,  rich, 
fat,  jovial  voice,  "  Yo  ho,  there  !     Ebenezer  !  Dick  !  " 

A  living  and  moving  picture  of  Scrooge's  former  self,  a  young 
man,  came  briskly  in,  accompanied  by  his  fellow-prentice. 

"  Dick  Wilkins,  to  be  sure  !  "  said  Scrooge  to  the  Ghost.  "  My 
old  fellow-prentice,  bless  me,  yes.  There  he  is.  He  was  very  much 
attached  to  me,  was  Dick.     Poor  Dick  !     Dear,  dear  !  " 

"  Yo  ho,  my  boys  ! "  said  Fezziwig.  "  No  more  work  to-night. 
Christmas  Eve,  Dick.     Christmas,  Ebenezer !     Let's  have  the  shut- 


CHARLES   DICKENS.  527 

ters  up,  before  a  mail  can  say  Jack  Robinson  !  Clear  away,  my 
lads,  and  let's  have  lots  of  room  here  !  " 

Clear  away  !  There  was  nothing  they  wouldn't  have  cleared  away, 
or  couldn't  have  cleared  away,  with  old  Fezziwig  looking  on.  It  was 
done  in  a  minute.  Every  movable  was  packed  off,  as  if  it  were  dis- 
missed from  public  life  forevermore  ;  the  floor  was  swept  and  wa- 
tered, the  lamps  were  trimmed,  fuel  was  heaped  upon  the  fire  ;  and 
the  warehouse  was  as  snug  and  warm  and  dry  and  bright  a  ball- 
room as  you  would  desire  to  see  upon  a  winter's  night. 

In  came  a  fiddler  with  a  music-book,  and  went  up  to  the  lofty 
desk,  and  made  an  orchestra  of  it,  and  tuned  like  fifty  stomach- 
aches. In  came  Mrs.  Fezziwig,  one  vast  substantial  smile.  In 
came  the  three  Miss  Fezziwigs,  beaming  and  lovable.  In  came  the 
six  young  followers  whose  hearts  they  broke.  In  came  all  the  young 
men  and  women  employed  in  the  business.  In  came  the  housemaid, 
with  her  cousin  the  baker.  In  came  the  cook,  with  her  brother's 
particular  friend  the  milkman.  In  they  all  came  one  after  another  ; 
some  shyly,  some  boldly,  some  gracefully,  some  awkwardly,  some 
pushing,  some  pulling  ;  in  they  all  came,  anyhow  and  everyhow. 
Away  they  all  went,  twenty  couple  at  once  ;  hands  half  round  and 
back  again  the  other  way ;  down  the  middle  and  up  again  ;  round 
and  round  in  various  stages  of  affectionate  grouping  ;  old  top  couple 
always  turning  up  in  the  wrong  place  ;  new  top  couple  starting  off 
again,  as  soon  as  they  got  there ;  all  top  couples  at  last,  and  not  a 
bottom  one  to  help  them.  When  this  result  was  brought  about,  old 
Fezziwig,  clapping  his  hands  to  stop  the  dance,  cried  out,  "  Well 
done  !  "  and  the  fiddler  plunged  his  hot  face  into  a  pot  of  porter  es- 
pecially provided  for  that  purpose. 

There  were  more  dances,  and  there  were  forfeits,  and  more  dances, 
and  there  was  cake,  and  there  was  negus,  and  there  was  a  great 
piece  of  Cold  Roast,  and  there  v/as  a  great  piece  of  Cold  Boiled, 
and  there  were  mince-pies,  and  plenty  of  beer.  But  the  great  effect 
of  the  evening  came  after  the  Roast  and  Boiled,  when  the  fiddler 
struck  up  "  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley."  Then  old  Fezziwig  stood  out 
to  dance  with  Mrs.  Fezziwig.  Top  couple,  too  ;  with  a  good  stiff 
piece  of  work  cut  out  for  them  ;  three  or  four  and  twenty  pair  of 
partners  ;  people  who  were  not  to  be  trifled  with  ;  people  who  would 
dance,  and  had  no  notion  of  walking. 

But  if  they  had  been  twice  as  many,  —  four  times,  —  old  Fezziwig 
would  have  been  a  match  for  them,  and  so  would  Mrs.  Fezziwig. 
As  to  her^  she  was  worthy  to  be  his  partner  in  every  sense  of  the 


528  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

term.  A  positive  light  appeared  to  issue  from  Fezziwig's  calves. 
They  shone  in  every  part  of  the  dance.  You  couldn't  have  predicted, 
at  any  given  time,  what  would  become  of  'em  next.  And  when  old 
Fezziwig  and  Mrs.  Fezziwig  had  gone  all  through  the  dance,  —  ad- 
vance and  retire,  turn  your  partner,  bow  and  courtesy,  corkscrew, 
thread  the  needle,  and  back  again  to  your  place,  —  Fezziwig  "  cut  " 
—  cut  so  deftly,  that  he  appeared  to  wink  with  his  legs. 

When  the  clock  struck  eleven  this  domestic  ball  broke  up.  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Fezziwig  took  their  stations,  one  on  either  side  the  door, 
and,  shaking  hands  with  every  person  individually  as  he  or  she  went 
out,  wished  him  or  her  a  Merry  Christmas.  When  everybody  had 
retired  but  the  two  'prentices,  they  did  the  same  to  them  ;  and  thus 
the  cheerful  voices  died  away,  and  the  lads  were  left  to  their  beds, 
which  were  under  a  counter  in  the  back  shop. 

"  A  small  matter,"  said  the  Ghost,  "  to  make  these  silly  folks  so 
full  of  gratitude.  He  has  spent  but  a  few  pounds  of  your  mortal 
money  —  three  or  four  perhaps.  Is  that  so  much  that  he  deserves 
this  praise  ? " 

"  It  isn't  that,"  said  Scrooge,  heated  by  the  remark,  and  speaking 
unconsciously  like  his  former,  not  his  latter  self,  — "  it  isn't  that, 
Spirit.  He  has  the  power  to  render  us  happy  or  unhappy  ;  to  make 
our  service  light  or  burdensome  ;  a  pleasure  or  a  toil.  Say  that  his 
power  lies  in  words  and  looks  ;  in  things  so  slight  and  insignificant 
that  it  is  impossible  to  add  and  count  'em  up :  what  then  ?  The 
happiness  he  gives  is  quite  as  great  as  if  it  cost  a  fortune." 

He  felt  the  Spirit's  glance,  and  stopped. 

"  What  is  the  matter  }  " 

"  Nothing  particular." 

"  Something,  I  think  ?  " 

"  No,  no.  I  should  like  to  be  able  to  say  a  word  or  two  to  my 
clerk  just  now.     That's  all." 

"  My  time  grows  short,"  observed  the  Spirit.     "  Quick  !  " 

This  was  not  addressed  to  Scrooge,  or  to  any  one  whom  he  could 
see,  but  it  produced  an  immediate  effect.  For  again  he  saw  him- 
self.    He  was  older  now  ;  a  man  in  the  prime  of  life. 

He  was  not  alone,  but  sat  by  the  side  of  a  fair  young  girl  in  a 
black  dress,  in  whose  eyes  there  were  tears. 

"  It  matters  little,"  she  said  softly  to  Scrooge's  former  self.  "To 
you,  very  little.  Another  idol  has  displaced  me  ;  and  if  it  can  com- 
fort you  in  time  to  come,  as  I  would  have  tried  to  do,  I  have  no  just 
cause  to  grieve." 


CHARLES   DICKENS.  529 

"  What  Idol  has  displaced  you  ?  " 

"A  sfolden  one.  You  fear  the  world  too  much.  I  have  seen 
your  nobler  aspirations  fall  off  one  by  one,  until  the  master-passion, 
Gain,  engrosses  you.     Have  I  not  ?  " 

"  What  then  ?  Even  if  I  have  grown  so  much  wiser,  what  then  .'' 
I  am  not  changed  towards  you.  Have  I  ever  sought  release  from 
our  engagement  ?  " 

"  In  words,  no.     Never." 

"  In  what,  then  ?  " 

"  In  a  changed  nature ;  in  an  altered  spirit ;  in  another  atmos- 
phere of  life  ;  another  Hope  as  its  great  end.  If  you  were  free  to- 
day, to-morrow,  yesterday,  can  even  I  believe  that  you  would  choose 
a  dowerless  girl ;  or,  choosing  her,  do  I  not  know  that  your  repent- 
ance and  regret  would  surely  follow  ?  I  do  ;  and  I  release  you. 
With  a  full  heart,  for  the  love  of  him  you  once  were." 

"Spirit !  remove  me  from  this  place." 

"  I  told  you  these  were  shadows  of  the  things  that  have  been," 
said  the  Ghost.     "  That  they  are  what  they  are,  do  not  blame  me  !  " 

"  Remove  me  !  "  Scrooge  exclaimed.  "  I  cannot  bear  it !  Leave 
me  !     Take  me  back  !     Haunt  me  no  longer  !  " 

As  he  struggled  with  the  Spirit  he  was  conscious  of  being  ex- 
hausted, and  overcome  by  an  irresistible  drowsiness  ;  and,  further, 
of  being  in  his  own  bed-room.  He  had  barely  time  to  reel  to  bed 
before  he  sank  into  a  heavy  sleep. 

STAVE   THREE.  —  THE   SECOND   OF   THE   THREE   SPIRITS. 

Scrooge  awoke  in  his  own  bed-room.  There  was  no  doubt  about 
that.  But  it  and  his  own  adjoining  sitting-room,  into  which  he 
shuffled  in  his  slippers,  attracted  by  a  great  light  there,  had  under- 
gone a  surprising  transformation.  The  walls  and  ceiling  were  so 
hung  with  living  green,  that  it  looked  a  perfect  grove.  The  leaves 
of  holly,  mistletoe,  and  ivy  reflected  back  the  light,  as  if  so  many 
little  mirrors  had  been  scattered  there  ;  and  such  a  mighty  blaze 
went  roaring  up  the  chimney,  as  that  petrifaction  of  a  hearth  had 
never  known  in  Scrooge's  time,  or  Marley's,  or  for  many  and  many 
a  winter  season  gone.  Heaped  upon  the  floor,  to  form  a  kind  of 
throne,  were  turkeys,  geese,  game,  brawn,  great  joints  of  meat,  suck- 
ing pigs,  long  wreaths  of  sausages,  mince-pies,  plum-puddings,  barrels 
of  oysters,  red-hot  chestnuts,  cherry-cheeked  apples,  juicy  oranges, 
luscious  pears,  immense  twelfth-cakes,  and  great  bowls  of  punch. 
34 


53^  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

In  easy  state  upon  this  couch  there  sat  a  Giant  glorious  to  see  ;  who 
bore  a  glowing  torch,  in  shape  not  unlike  Plenty's  horn,  and  who 
raised  it  high  to  shed  its  light  on  Scrooge,  as  he  came  peeping 
round  the  door. 

"  Come  in,  —  come  in  !  and  know  me  better,  man  !  I  am  the 
Ghost  of  Christmas  Present.  Look  upon  me  !  You  have  never 
seen  the  like  of  me  before  ! "  • 

"  Never." 

"  Have  never  walked  forth  with  the  younger  members  of  my 
family  ;  meaning  (for  I  am  very  young)  my  elder  brothers  born  in 
these  later  years  ?  "  pursued  the  Phantom. 

"  I  don't  think  I  have,  I  am  afraid  I  have  not.  Have  you  had 
many  brothers.  Spirit .''  " 

"  More  than  eighteen  hundred." 

"  A  tremendous  family  to  provide  for  !  Spirit,  conduct  me  where 
you  will.  I  went  forth  last  night  on  compulsion,  and  I  learnt  a  lesson 
which  is  working  now.  To-night,  if  you  have  aught  to  teach  me,  let 
me  profit  by  it." 

"  Touch  my  robe  !  " 

Scrooge  did  as  he  was  told,  and  held  it  fast. 

The  room  and  its  contents  all  vanished  instantly,  and  they  stood 
in  the  city  streets  upon  a  snowy  Christmas  morning. 

Scrooge  and  the  Ghost  passed  on,  invisible,  straight  to  Scrooge's 
clerk's  ;  and  on  the  threshold  of  the  door  the  Spirit  smiled,  and 
stopped  to  bless  Bob  Cratchit's  dwelling  with  the  sprinklings  of  his 
torch.  Think  of  that  !  Bob  had  but  fifteen  "  Bob  "  a  week  himself; 
he  pocketed  on  Saturdays  but  fifteen  copies  of  his  Christian  name  ; 
and  yet  the  Ghost  of  Christmas  Present  blessed  his  four-roomed 
house ! 

Then  up  rose  Mrs.  Cratchit,  Cratchit's  wife,  dressed  out  but  poorly 
in  a  twice-turned  gown,  but  brave  in  ribbons,  which  are  cheap  and 
make  a  goodly  show  for  sixpence  ;  and  she  laid  the  cloth,  assisted 
by  Belinda  Cratchit,  second  of  her  daughters,  also  brave  in  ribbons  ; 
while  Master  Peter  Cratchit  plunged  a  fork  into  the  saucepan  of 
potatoes,  and,  getting  the  corners  of  his  monstrous  shirt-collar 
(Bob's  private  property,  conferred  upon  his  son  and  heir  in  honor  of 
the  day)  into  his  mouth,  rejoiced  to  find  himself  so  gallantly  attired, 
and  yearned  to  show  his  linen  in  the  fashionable  Parks.  And  now 
two  smaller  Cratchits,  boy  and  girl,  came  tearing  in,  screaming  that 
outside  the  baker's  they  had  smelt  the  goose,  and  known  it  for  their 
own  ;  and,  basking  in  luxurious  thoughts  of  sage  and  onion,  these 


CHARLES   DICKENS.  531 

young  Cratchits  danced  about  the  table,  and  exalted  Master  Peter 
Cratchit  to  the  skies,  .while  he  (not  proud,  although  his  collars 
nearly  choked  him)  blew  the  fire,  until  the  slow  potatoes,  bubbling 
up,  knocked  loudly  at  the  saucepan-lid  to  be  let  out  and  peeled. 

"  What  has  ever  got  your  precious  father  then  ? "  said  Mrs. 
Cratchit.  "And  your  brother  Tiny  Tim  !  And  Martha  warn't  as 
late  last  Christmas  day  by  half  an  hour  !  " 

"  Here's  Martha,  mother  !  "  said  a  girl,  appearing  as  she  spoke. 

"  Here's  Martha,  mother ! "  cried  the  two  young  Cratchits. 
"  Hurrah  !     There's  such  a  goose,  Martha  !  " 

.  "  Why,  bless  your  heart  alive,  my  dear,  how  late  you  are  !  "  said 
Mrs.  Cratchit,  kissing  her  a  dozen  times,  and  taking  off  her  shawl 
and  bonnet  for  her. 

"  We'd  a  deal  of  work  to  finish  up  last  night,"  replied  the  girl, 
"  and  had  to  clear  away  this  morning,  mother  !  " 

"  Well !  Never  mind  so  long  as  you  are  come,"  said  Mrs. 
Cratchit.  "  Sit  ye  down  before  the  fire,  my  dear,  and  have  a  warm, 
Lord  bless  ye  !  " 

"  No,  no  !  There's  father  coming,"  cried  the  two  young  Cratchits, 
who  were  everywhere  at  once.     "  Hide,  Martha,  hide  !  " 

So  Martha  hid  herself,  and  in  came  little  Bob,  the  father,  with  at 
least  three  feet  of  comforter,  exclusive  of  the  fringe,  hanging  down 
before  him  ;  and  his  threadbare  clothes  darned  up  and  brushed,  to 
look  seasonable  ;  and  Tiny  Tim  upon  his  shoulder.  Alas  for  Tiny 
Tim,  he  bore  a  little  crutch,  and  had  his  limbs  supported  by  an 
iron  frame. 

"  Why,  where's  our  Martha  ?  "  cried  Bob  Cratchit,  looking  round. 

"  Not  coming,"  said  Mrs.  Cratchit. 

"  Not  coming  ! "  said  Bob,  with  a  sudden  declension  in  his  high 
spirits  ;  for  he  had  been  Tim's  blood-horse  all  the  way  from  church, 
and  had  come  home  rampant,  —  not  coming  upon  Christmas  day  !  " 

Martha  didn't  like  to  see  him  disappointed,  if  it  were  only  in  joke  ; 
so  she  came  out  prematurely  from  behind  the  closet  door,  and  ran 
into  his  arms,  while  the  two  young  Cratchits  hustled  Tiny  Tim,  and 
bore  him  off  into  the  wash-house,  that  he  might  hear  the  pudding 
singing  in  the  copper. 

"  And  how  did  Httle  Tim  behave  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Cratchit,  when  she 
had  rallied  Bob  on  his  credulity,  and  Bob  had  hugged  his  daughter 
to  his  heart's  content. 

"  As  good  as  gold,"  said  Bob,  "  and  better.  Somehow  he  gets 
thoughtful,  sitting  by  himself  so  much,  and  thinks   the  strangest 


532  HAND-BOOK   OF  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

things  you  ever  heard.  He  told  me,  coming  home,  that  he  hoped 
the  people  saw  him  in  the  church,  because  he  was  a  cripple,  and  it 
might  be  pleasant  to  them  to  remember,  upon  Christmas  day,  who 
made  lame  beggars  walk  and  blind  men  see." 

Bob's  voice  was  tremulous  when  he  told  them  this,  and  trem- 
bled more  when  he  said  that  Tiny  Tim  was  growing  strong  and 
hearty. 

His  active  little  crutch  was  heard  upon  the  floor,  and  back  came 
Tiny  Tim  before  another  word  was  spoken,  escorted  by  his  brother 
and  sister  to  his  stool  beside  the  fire  ;  and  while  Bob,  turning  up 
his  cuffs,  —  as  if,  poor  fellow,  they  were  capable  of  being  made  more, 
shabby,  —  compounded  some  hot  mixture  in  a  jug  with  gin  and 
lemons,  and  stirred  it  round  and  round  and  put  it  on  the  hob  to 
simmer,  Master  Peter  and  the  two  ubiquitous  young  Cratchits  went 
to  fetch  the  goose,  with  which  they  soon  returned  in  high  procession. 

Mrs.  Cratchit  made  the  gravy  (ready  beforehand  in  a  little  sauce- 
pan) hissing  hot ;  Master  Peter  mashed  the  potatoes  with  incredible 
vigor  ;  Miss  Belinda  sweetened  up  the  apple-sauce  ;  Martha  dusted 
the  hot  plates  ;  Bob  took  Tiny  Tim  beside  him  in  a  tiny  corner  at 
the  table  ;  the  two  young  Cratchits  set  chairs  for  everybody,  not  for- 
getting themselves,  and  mounting  guard  upon  their  posts,  crammed 
spoons  into  their  mouths,  lest  they  should  shriek  for  goose  before 
their  turn  came  to  be  helped.  At  last  the  dishes  were  set  on,  and 
grace  was  said.  It  was  succeeded  by  a  breathless  pause,  as  Mrs. 
Cratchit,  looking  slowly  all  along  the  carving-knife,  prepared  to 
plunge  it  in  the  breast ;  but  when  •  she  did,  and  when  the  long- 
expected  gush  of  stuffing  issued  forth,  one  murmur  of  delight  arose 
all  round  the  board,  and  even  Tiny  Tim,  excited  by  the  two  young 
Cratchits,  beat  on  the  table  with  the  handle  of  his  knife,  and  feebly 
cried.  Hurrah  ! 

There  never  was  such  a  goose.  Bob  said  he  didn't  believe  there 
ever  was  such  a  goose  cooked.  Its  tenderness  and  flavor,  size  and 
cheapness,  were  the  themes  of  universal  admiration.  Eked  out  by 
apple-sauce  and  mashed  potatoes,  it  was  a  sufficient  dinner  for  the 
whole  family ;  indeed,  as  Mrs.  Cratchit  said  with  great  delight 
(surveying  one  small  atom  of  a  bone  upon  the  dish),  they  hadn't  ate 
it  all  at  last !  Yet  every  one  had  had  enough,  and  the  youngest 
Cratchits  in  particular  were  steeped  in  sage  and  onion  to  the  eye- 
brows !  But  now,  the  plates  being  changed  by  Miss  Belinda,  Mrs. 
Cratchit  left  the  room  alone,  —  too  nervous  to  bear  witnesses,  —  to 
take  the  pudding  up,  and  bring  it  in. 


CHARLES   DICKENS.  533 

Suppose  it  should  not  be  done  enough  !  Suppose  it  should  break 
in  turning  out  !  Suppose  somebody  should  have  got  over  the  wall 
of  the  back  yard,  and  stolen  it,  while  they  were  merry  with  the 
goose,  —  a  supposition  at  which  the  two  young  Cratchits  became 
livid  !     All  sorts  of  horrors  were  supposed. 

Hallo  !  A  great  deal  of  steam  !  The  pudding  was  out  of  the 
copper.  A  smell  like  a  washing-day !  That  was  the  cloth.  A 
smell  like  an  eating-house  and  a  pastry-cook's  next  door  to  each 
other,  with  a  laundress's  next  door  to  that !  That  was  the  pudding  ! 
In  half  a  minute  Mrs.  Cratchit  entered,  —  flushed  but  smiling 
proudly,  —  with  the  pudding,  like  a  speckled  cannon-ball,  so  hard 
and  firm,  blazing  in  half  of  half  a  quartern  of  ignited  brandy,  and 
bedight  with  Christmas  holly  stuck  into  the  top. 

O,  a  wonderful  pudding  !  Bob  Cratchit  said,  and  calmly  too,  that 
he  regarded  it  as  the  greatest  success  achieved  by  Mrs.  Cratchit 
since  their  marriage.  Mrs.  Cratchit  said  that  now  the  weight  was 
off  her  mind,  she  would  confess  she  had  had  her  doubts  about  the 
quantity  of  flour.  Everybody  had  something  to  say  about  it,  but 
nobody  said  or  thought  it  was  at  all  a  small  pudding  for  a  large 
family.     Any  Cratchit  would  have  blushed  to  hint  at  such  a  thing. 

At  last  the  dinner  was  all  done,  the  cloth  was  cleared,  the  hearth 
swept,  and  the  fire  made  up.  The  compound  in  the  jug  being  tasted, 
and  considered  perfect,  apples  and  oranges  were  put  upon  the  table, 
and  a  shovelful  of  chestnuts  on  the  fire. 

Then  all  the  Cratchit  family  drew  round  the  hearth,  in  what  Bob 
Cratchit  called  a  circle,  and  at  Bob  Cratchit's  elbow  stood  the 
family  display  of  glass,  —  two  tumblers,  and  a  custard-cup  without 
a  handle. 

These  held  the  hot  stuff  from  the  jug,  however,  as  well  as  golden 
goblets  would  have  done  ;  and  Bob  served  it  out  with  beaming  looks, 
while  the  chestnuts  on  the  fire  sputtered  and  crackled  noisily. 
Then  Bob  proposed  :  — 

"  A  Merry  Christmas  to  us  all,  my  dears.     God  bless  us  !  " 

Which  all  the  family  re-echoed. 

"  God  bless  us  every  one  !  "  said  Tiny  Tim,  the  last  of  all. 

He  sat  very  close  to  his  father's  side,  upon  his  little  stool.  Bob 
held  his  withered  little  hand  in  his,  as  if  he  loved  the  child,  and 
wished  to  keep  him  by  his  side,  and  dreaded  that  he  might  be  taken 
from  him. 

Scrooge  raised  his  head  speedily,  on  hearing  his  own  name. 

"  Mr.  Scrooge  ! "  said  Bob ;  "  I'll  give  you,  Mr.  Scrooge,  the 
Founder  of  the  Feast !  " 


534  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

"  The  Founder  of  the  Feast  indeed  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Cratchit,  redden- 
ing. "  I  wish  I  had  him  here.  I'd  give  him  a  piece  of  my  mind  to 
feast  upon,  and  I  hope  he'd  have  a  good  appetite  for  it." 

"  My  dear,"  said  Bob,  "  the  children  !     Christmas  day." 

"It  should  be  Christmas  day,  I  am  sure,"  said  she,  "on  which 
one  drinks  the  health  of  such  an  odious,  stingy,  hard,  unfeeling  man 
as  Mr.  Scrooge.  You  know  he  is,  Robert!  Nobody  knows  it 
better  than  you  do,  poor  fellow !  " 

"  My  dear,"  was  Bob's  mild  answer,  "  Christmas  day." 

"I'll  drink  his  health  for  your  sake  and  the  day's,"  said  Mrs. 
Cratchit,  "  not  for  his.  Long  life  to  him  !  A  merry  Christmas  and 
a  happy  New  Year  !  He'll  be  very  merry  and  very  happy,  I  have 
no  doubt ! " 

The  children  drank  the  toast  after  her.  It  was  the  first  of  their 
proceedings  which  had  no  heartiness  in  it.  Tiny  Tim  drank  it  last 
of  all,  but  he  didn't  care  twopence  for  it.  Scrooge  was  the  Ogre  of 
the  family.  The  mention  of  his  name  cast  a  dark  shadow  on  the 
party,  which  was  not  dispelled  for  full  five  minutes. 

After  it  had  passed  away,  they  were  ten  times  merrier  than  before, 
from  the  mere  relief  of  Scrooge  the  Baleful  being  done  with.  Bob 
Cratchit  told  them  how  he  had  a  situation  in  his  eye  for  Master 
Peter,  which  would  bring  in,  if  obtained,  full  five  and  sixpence  week- 
ly. The  two  young  Cratchits  laughed  tremendously  at  the  idea  of 
Peter's  being  a  man  of  business  ;  and  Peter  himself  looked  thought- 
fully at  the  fire  from  between  his  collars,  as  if  he  were  deliberating 
what  particular  investments  he  should  favor  when  he  came  into  the 
receipt  of  that  bewildering  income.  Martha,  who  was  a  poor  ap- 
prentice at  a  milliner's,  then  told  them  what  kind  of  work  she  had  to 
do,  and  how  many  hours  she  worked  at  a  stretch,  and  how  she 
meant  to  lie  abed  to-morrow  morning  for  a  good  long  rest ;  to- 
morrow being  a  hohday  she  passed  at  home.  Also  how  she  had 
seen  a  countess  and  a  lord  some  days  before,  and  how  the  lord  "  was 
much  about  as  tall  as  Peter  ;  "  at  which  Peter  pulled  up  his  collars 
so  high  that  you  couldn't  have  seen  his  head  if  you  had  been  there. 
All  this  time  the  chestnuts  and  the  jug  went  round  and  round  ;  and 
by  and  by  they  had  a  song,  about  a  lost  child  travelHng  in  the  snow, 
from  Tiny  Tim,  who  had  a  plaintive  little  voice,  and  sang  it  very 
well  indeed. 

There  was  nothing  of  high  mark  in  this.  They  were  not  a  hand- 
some family ;  they  were  not  well  dressed  ;  their  shoes  were  far  from 
being  water-proof;  their  clothes  were  scanty  ;  and  Peter  might  have 


CHARLES   DICKENS.  535 

known,  and  very  likely  did,  the  inside  of  a  pawn-broker's.  But  they 
were  happy,  grateful,  pleased  with  one  another,  and  contented  with 
the  time  ;  and  when  they  faded,  and  looked  happier  yet  in  the  bright 
sprinkhngs  of  the  Spirit's  torch  at  parting,  Scrooge  had  his  eye  upon 
them,  and  especially  on  Tiny  Tim,  until  the  last. 

It  was  a  great  surprise  to  Scrooge,  as  this  scene  vanished,  to  hear 
a  hearty  laugh.  It  was  a  much  greater  surprise  to  Scrooge  to 
recognize  it  as  his  own  nephew's,  and  to  find  himself  in  a  bright,  dry, 
gleaming  room,  with  the  Spirit  standing  smihng  by  his  side,  and 
looking  at  that  same  nephew^ 

It  is  a  fair,  even-handed,  noble  adjustment  of  things,  that  while 
there  is  infection  in  disease  and  sorrow,  there  is  nothing  in  the 
world  so  irresistibly  contagious  as  laughter  and  good-humor.  When 
Scrooge's  nephew  laughed,  Scrooge's  niece  by  marriage  laughed  as 
heartily  as  he.  And  their  assembled  friends,  being  not  a  bit  behind- 
hand, laughed  out  lustily. 

"  He  said  that  Christmas  was  a  humbug,  as  I  live  ! "  cried 
Scrooge's  nephew.     "  He  beheved  it  too  !  " 

"  More  shame  for  him,  Fred  ! "  said  Scrooge's  niece,  indignantly. 
Bless  those  women  !  they  never  do  anything  by  halves.  They  are 
always  in  earnest. 

She  was  very  pretty ;  exceedingly  pretty.  With  a  dimpled,  sur- 
prised-looking,  capital  face,  a  ripe  little  mouth  that  seemed  made  to 
be  kissed, — as  no  doubt  it  was  ;  all  kinds  of  good  little  dots  about 
her  chin,  that  melted  into  one  another  when  she  laughed ;  and  the 
sunniest  pair  of  eyes  you  ever  saw  in  any  little  creature's  head. 
Altogether  she  was  what  you  would  have  called  provoking,  but 
satisfactory,  too.     O,  perfectly  satisfactory. 

"  He's  a  comical  old  fellow,"  said  Scrooge's  nephew,  "  that's  the 
truth  ;  and  not  so  pleasant  as  he  might  be.  However,  his  offences 
carry  their  own  punishment,  and  I  have  nothing  to  say  against  him. 
Who  suffers  by  his  ill  whims  ?  Himself,  always.  Here  he  takes  it 
into  his  head  to  dislike  us,  and  he  won't  come  and  dine  with  us. 
What's  the  consequence  ?     He  don't  lose  much  of  a  dinner." 

"  Indeed,  I  think  he  loses  a  very  good  dinner,"  interrupted 
Scrooge's  niece.  Everybody  else  said  the  same,  and  they  must  be 
allowed  to  have  been  competent  judges,  because  they  had  just  had 
dinner  ;  and,  with  the  dessert  upon  the  table,  were  clustered  round 
the  fire,  by  lamplight. 

"  Well,  I  am  very  glad  to  hear  it,"  said  Scrooge's  nephew, 
"  because  I  haven't  any  great  faith  in  these  young  housekeepers. 
What  do  you  say.  Topper  ?  " 


53t)  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

Topper  clearly  had  his  eye  on  one  of  Scrooge's  niece's  sisters, 
for  he  answered  that  a  bachelor  was  a  wretched  outcast,  who  had  no 
right  to  express  an  opinion  on  the  subject.  Whereat  Scrooge's 
niece's  sister  —  the  plump  one  with  the  lace  tucker;  not  the  one 
with  the  roses  —  blushed. 

After  tea  they  had  some  music.  For  they  were  a  musical  family, 
and  knew  what  they  were  about,  when  they  sang  a  Glee  or  Catch,  I 
can  assure  you,  —  especially  Topper,  who  could  growl  away  in  the 
bass  like  a  good  one,  and  never  swell  the  large  veins  in  his  forehead, 
or  get  red  in  the  face  over  it. 

But  they  didn't  devote  the  whole  evening  to  music.  After  a  while 
they  played  at  forfeits  ;  for  it  is  good  to  be  children  sometimes,  and 
never  better  than  at  Christmas,  when  its  mighty  Founder  was  a 
child  himself.  There  was  first  a  game  at  blind-man's-buff  though. 
And  I  no  more  believe  Topper  was  really  blinded  than  I  believe  he 
had  eyes  in  his  boots.  Because  the  way  in  which  he  went  after  that 
plump;  sister  in  the  lace  tucker  was  an  outrage  on  the  credulity  of 
human  nature.  Knocking  down  the  fire-irons,  tumbling  over  the 
chairs,  bumping  up  against  the  piano,  smothering  himself  among  the 
curtains,  wherever  she  went  there  went  he  !  He  always  knew 
where  the  plump  sister  was.  He  wouldn't  catch  anybody  else.  If 
you  had  fallen  up  against  him,  as  some  of  them  did,  and  stood  there, 
he  would  have  made  a  feint  of  endeavoring  to  seize  you,  which  would 
have  been  an  affront  to  your  understanding,  and  would  instantly 
have  sidled  off  in  the  direction  of  the  plump  sister. 

"  Here  is  a  new  game,"  said  Scrooge.  "  One  half-hour,  Spirit, 
only  one  ! " 

It  was  a  Game  called  Yes  and  No,  where  Scrooge's  nephew  had 
to  think  of  something,  and  the  rest  must  find  out  what  ;  he  only 
answering  to  their  questions  yes  or  no,  as  the  case  was.  The  fire 
of  questioning  to  which  he  was  exposed  elicited  from  him  that  he 
was  thinking  of  an  animal,  a  live  animal,  rather  a  disagreeable 
animal,  a  savage  animal,  an  animal  that  growled  and  grunted  some- 
times, and  talked  sometimes,  and  lived  in  London,  and  walked  about 
the  streets,  and  wasn't  made  a  show  of,  and  wasn't  led  by  anybody, 
and  didn't  live  in  a  menagerie,  and  was  never  killed  in  a  market,  and 
was  not  a  horse,  or  an  ass,  or  a  cow,  or  a  bull,  or  a  tiger,  or  a  dog, 
or  a  pig,  or  a  cat,  or  a  bear.  At  every  new  question  put  to  him,  this 
nephew  burst  into  a  fresh  roar  of  laughter  ;  and  was  so  inexpressi- 
bly tickled,  that  he  was  obliged  to  get  up  off  the  sofa  and  stamp.  At 
last  the  plump  sister  cried  out,  — 


CHARLES   DICKENS.  *      537 

"  I  have  found  it  out !  I  know  what  it  is,  Fred  !  I  know  what 
it  is  !  " 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  cried  Fred. 

"  It's  your  uncle  Scro-o-o-o-oge  !  " 

Which  it  certainly  was.  Admiration  was  the  universal  sentiment, 
though  some  objected  that  the  reply  to  "  Is  it  a  bear  ? "  ought  to 
have  been  "  Yes." 

Uncle  Scrooge  had  imperceptibly  become  so  gay  and  light  of 
heart,  that  he  would  have  drank  to  the  unconscious  company  in  an 
inaudible  speech.  But  the  whole  scene  passed  oif  in  the  breath  of 
the  last  word  spoken  by  his  nephew ;  and  he  and  the  Spirit  were 
again  upon  their  travels. 

Much  they  saw,  and  far  they  went,  and  many  homes  they  visited, 
but  always  with  a  happy  end.  The  Spirit  stood  beside  sick-beds, 
and  they  were  cheerful ;  on  foreign  lands,  and  they  were  close  at 
home ;  by  struggling  men,  and  they  were  patient  in  their  greater 
hope  ;  by  poverty,  and  it  was  rich.  In  almshouse,  hospital,  and  jail, 
in  misery's  every  refuge,  where  vain  man  in  his  little  brief  authority 
had  not  made  fast  the  door,  and  barred  the  Spirit  out,  he  left  his 
blessing,  and  taught  Scrooge  his  precepts.  Suddenly,  as  they  stood 
together  in  an  open  place,  the  bell  struck  twelve. 

Scrooge  looked  about  him  for  the  Ghost,  and  saw  it  no  more.  As 
the  last  stroke  ceased  to  vibrate,  he  remembered  the  prediction  of 
old  Jacob  Marley,  and,  lifting  up  his  eyes,  beheld  a  solemn 
Phantom,  draped  and  hooded,  coming  like  a  mist  along  the  ground 
towards  him. 

STAVE   FOUR.  —  THE   LAST   OF   THE   SPIRITS. 

The  Phantom  slowly,  gravely,  silently  approached.  When  it 
came  near  him,  Scrooge  bent  down  upon  his  knee  ;  for  in  the 
air  through  which  this  Spirit  moved  it  seemed  to  scatter  gloom 
and  mystery. 

It  was  shrouded  in  a  deep  black  garment,  which  concealed  its 
head,  its  face,  its  form,  and  left  nothing  of  it  visible  save  one  out- 
stretched hand.  He  knew  no  more,  for  the  Spirit  neither  spoke 
nor  moved. 

"  I  am  in  the  presence  of  the  Ghost  of  Christmas  Yet  To  Come  ? 
Ghost  of  the  Future  !  I  fear  you  more  than  any  spectre  I  have 
seen.  But  as  I  know  your  purpose  is  to  do  me  good,  and  as  I  hope 
to  live  to  be  another  man  from  wliat  I  was,  I  am  prepared  to  bear 


538      ■  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

you  company,  and  do  it  with  a  thankful  heart.  Will  you  not 
speak  to  me  .■*  " 

It  gave  him  no  reply.  The  hand  was  pointed  straight  before 
them. 

"  Lead  on  !  Lead  on  !  The  night  is  waning  fast,  and  it  is  pre- 
cious time  to  me,  I  know.     Lead  on,  Spirit  !  " 

They  scarcely  seemed  to  enter  the  city  ;  for  the  city  rather  seemed 
to  spring  up  about  them.  But  there  they  were  in  the  heart  of  it ; 
on  'Change,  amongst  the  merchants. 

The  Spirit  stopped  beside  one  little  knot  of  business  men.  Ob- 
serving that  the  hand  was  pointed  to  them,  Scrooge  advanced  to 
listen  to  their  talk. 

"  No,"  said  a  great  fat  man  with  a  monstrous  chin,  "  I  don't  know 
much  about  it  either  way.     I  only  know  he's  dead." 

"  When  did  he  die  ?  "  inquired  another. 

"  Last  night,  I  believe." 

"  Why,  what  was  the  matter  with  him  ?     I  thought  he'd  never  die." 

"  God  knows,"  said  the  first,  with  a  yawn. 

"  What  has  he  done  with  his  money  ?  "  asked  a  red-faced  gen- 
tleman. 

"  I  haven't  heard,"  said  the  man  with  the  large  chin.  "  Company, 
perhaps.     He  hasn't  left  it  to  me.     That's  all  I  know.     By,  by  !  " 

Scrooge  was  at  first  inclined  to  be  surprised  that  the  Spirit  should 
attach  importance  lo  conversation  apparently  so  trivial  ;  but  feeling 
assured  that  it  must  have  some  hidden  purpose,  he  set  himself  to 
consider  what  it  was  likely  to  be.  It  could  scarcely  be  supposed  to 
have  any  bearing  on  the  death  of  Jacob,  his  old  partner,  for  that  was 
Past,  and  this  Ghost's  province  was  the  Future. 

He  looked  about  in  that  very  place  for  his  own  image ;  but 
another  man  stood  in  his  accustomed  corner,  and  though  the  clock 
pointed  to  his  usual  time  of  day  for  being  there,  he  saw  no  hkeness 
of  himself  among  the  multitudes  that  poured  in  through  the  Porch. 
It  gave  him  little  surprise,  however,  for  he  had  been  revolving  in  his 
mind  a  change  of  life,  and  he  thought  and  hoped  he  saw  his  new- 
born resolutions  carried  out  in  this. 

They  left  this  busy  scene,  and  went  into  an  obscure  part  of  the 
town,  to  a  low  shop  where  iron,  old  rags,  bottles,  bones,  and  greasy 
offal  were  bought.  A  gray-haired  rascal,  of  great  age,  sat  smoking 
his  pipe. 

Scrooge  and  the  Phantom  came  into  the  presence  of  this  man,  just 
as  a  woman  with  a  heavy  bundle  slunk  into  the  shop.     But  she  had 


CHARLES   DICKENS.  539 

scarcely  entered,  when  another  woman,  similarly  laden,  came  in  too, 
and  she  was  closely  followed  by  a  man  in  faded  black.  After  a  short 
period  of  blank  astonishment,  in  which  the  old  man  with  the  pipe 
had  joined  them,  they  all  three  burst  into  a  laugh. 

"  Let  the  charwoman  alone  to  be  the  first ! "  cried  she  who  had 
entered  first.  "  Let  the  laundress  alone  to  be  the  second  ;  and  let 
the  undertaker's  man  alone  to  be  the  third.  Look  here,  old  Joe, 
here's  a  chance  !  If  we  haven't  all  three  met  here  without  mean- 
ing it!" 

"  You  couldn't  have  met  in  a  better  place.  You  were  made  free  of 
it  long  ago,  you  know ;  and  the  other  two  ain't  strangers.  What 
have  you  got  to  sell  ?     What  have  you  got  to  sell  ?  " 

"  Half  a  minute's  patience,  Joe,  and  you  shall  see." 

"  What  odds  then  !  What  odds,  Mrs.  Dilber  ?  "  said  the  woman. 
"  Every  person  has  a  right  to  take  care  of  themselves.  He  always 
did  !  Who's  the  worse  for  the  loss  of  a  few  things  like  these  ?  Not 
a  dead  man,  I  suppose." 

Mrs.  Dilber,  whose  manner  was  remarkable  for  general  propitia- 
tion, said,  "  No,  indeed,  ma'am." 

"  If  he  wanted  to  keep  'em  after  he  was  dead,  a  wicked  old  screw, 
why  wasn't  he  natural  in  his  lifetime  ?  If  he  had  been,  he'd  have 
had  somebody  to  look  after  him  when  he  was  struck  with  Death, 
instead  of  lying  gasping  out  his  last  there,  alone  by  himself." 

"  It's  the  truest  word  that  ever  was  spoke,  it's  a  judgment  on  him." 

"  I  wish  it  was  a  little  heavier  judgment,  and  it  should  have  been, 
you  may  depend  upon  it,  if  I  could  have  laid  my  hands  on  anything 
else.  Open  that  bundle,  old  Joe,  and  let  me  know  the  value  of  it. 
Speak  out  plain.  I'm  not  afraid  to  be  the  first,  nor  afraid  for  them 
to  see  it." 

Joe  went  down  on  his  knees  for  the  greater  convenience  of 
opening  the  bundle,  and  dragged  out  a  large  and  heavy  roll  of  some 
dark  stuff. 

"  What  do  you  call  this  ?     Bed-curtains  !  " 

"  Ah  !  Bed-curtains  !  Don't  drop  that  oil  upon  the  blankets, 
now." 

"  His  blankets  ?  " 

"  Whose  else's  do  you  think  ?  He  isn't  likely  to  take  cold  with- 
out 'em,  I  dare  say.  Ah  !  You  may  look  through  that  shirt  till 
your  eyes  ache;  but  you  won't  find  a  hole  in  it,  nor  a  threadbare 
place.  It's  the  best  he  had,  and  a  fine  one  too.  They'd  have  wasted 
it  by  dressing  him  up  in  it,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  me." 


540  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

Scrooge  listened  to  this  dialogue  in  horror. 

"  Spirit !  I  see,  I  see.  The  case  of  this  unhappy  man  might  be 
my  own.  My  life  tends  that  way,  now.  Merciful  Heaven,  what 
is  this  ! " 

The  scene  had  changed,  and  now  he  almost  touched  a  bare,  un- 
curtained bed.  A  pale  light,  rising  in  the  outer  air,  fell  straight 
upon  this  bed  ;  and  on  it,  unwatched,  unwept,  uncared  for,  was  the 
body  of  this  plundered  unknown  man. 

"  Spirit,  let  me  see  some  tenderness  connected  with  a  death,  or 
this  dark  chamber.  Spirit,  will  be  forever  present  to  me." 

The  Ghost  conducted  him  to  poor  Bob  Cratchit's  house,  —  the 
dwelling  he  had  visited  before, — and  found  the  mother  and  the 
children  seated  round  the  fire. 

Quiet.  Very  quiet.  The  noisy  little  Cratchits  were  as  still  as 
statues  in  one  corner,  and  sat  looking  up  at  Peter,  who  had  a  book 
before  him.  The  mother  and  her  daughters  were  engaged  in  needle- 
work.    But  surely  they  were  very  quiet  ! 

"  '  And  he  took  a  child,  and  set  him  in  the  midst  of  them.'  " 

Where  had  Scrooge  heard  those  words  ?  He  had  not  dreamed 
them.  The  boy  must  have  read  them  out,  as  he  and  the  Spirit 
crossed  the  threshold.     Why  did  he  not  go  on  ? 

The  mother  laid  her  work  upon  the  table,  and  put  her  hand  up  to 
her  face. 

"  The  color  hurts  my  eyes,"  she  said. 

The  color  ?     Ah,  poor  Tiny  Tim  ! 

"  They're  better  now  again.  It  makes  them  weak  by  candle-light ; 
and  I  wouldn't  show  weak  eyes  to  your  father  when  he  comes  home, 
for  the  world.     It  must  be  near  his  time." 

"Past  it  rather,"  Peter  answered,  shutting  up  his  book.  "But  I 
think  he  has  walked  a  little  slower  than  he  used,  these  few  last 
evenings,  mother." 

"  I  have  known  him  walk  with  —  I  have  known  him  walk  with 
Tiny  Tim  upon  his  shoulder,  very  fast  indeed." 

"And  so  have  I,"  cried  Peter.     "Often." 

"  And  so  have  I,"  exclaimed  another.     So  had  all. 

"  But  he  was  very  light  to  carry,  and  his  father  loved  him  so, 
that  it  was  no  trouble,  —  no  trouble.  And  there  is  your  father  at 
the  door !  " 

She  hurried  out  to  meet  him  ;  and  little  Bob  in  his  comforter  —  he 
had  need  of  it,  poor  fellow  —  came  in.  His  tea  was  ready  for  him  on 
the  hob,  and  they  all  tried  who  should  help  him  to  it  most.     Then 


CHARLES   DICKENS.  54I 

the  two  young  Cratchits  got  upon  his  knees  and  laid,  each  child,  a 
little  cheek  against  his  face,  as  if  they  said,  "  Don't  mind  it,  father. 
Don't  be  grieved  !  " 

Bob  was  very  cheerful  with  them,  and  spoke  pleasantly  to  all  the 
family.  He  looked  at  the  work  upon  the  table,  and  praised  the 
industry  and  speed  of  Mrs.  Cratchit  and  the  girls.  They  would  be 
done  long  before  Sunday,  he  said. 

"  Sunday  !     You  went  to-day,  then,  Robert  ?  " 

"  Yes,  my  dear,"  returned  Bob.  "  I  wish  you  could  have  gone. 
It  would  have  done  you  good  to  see  how  green  a  place  it  is.  But 
you'll  see  it  often.  I  promised  him  that  I  would  walk  there  on  a 
Sunday.     My  little,  little  child  !     My  little  child  !  " 

He  broke  down  all  at  once.  He  couldn't  help  it.  If  he  could 
have  helped  it,  he  and  his  child  would  have  been  farther  apart,  per- 
haps, than  they  were. 

"  Spectre,"  said  Scrooge,  "  something  informs  me  that  our  parting 
moment  is  at  hand.  I  know  it,  but  I  know  not  how.  Tell  me  what 
man  that  was,  with  the  covered  face,  whom  we  saw  lying  dead  ?  " 

The  Ghost  of  Christmas  Yet  To  Come  conveyed  him  to  a  dismal, 
wretched,  ruinous  churchyard. 

The  Spirit  stood  among  the  graves,  and  pointed  down  to  One. 

"  Before  I  draw  nearer  to  that  stone  to  which  you  point,  answer 
me  one  question.  Are  these  the  shadows  of  the  things  that  Will  be, 
or  are  they  shadows  of  the  things  that  May  be  only  ?  " 

Still  the  Ghost  pointed  downward  to  the  grave  by  which  it  stood. 

"  Men's  courses  will  foreshadow  certain  ends,  to  which,  if  per- 
severed in,  they  must  lead.  But  if  the  courses  be  departed  from,  the 
ends  will  change.     Say  it  is  thus  with  what  you  show  me  ! " 

The  Spirit  was  immovable  as  ever. 

Scrooge  crept  towards  it,  trembling  as  he  went ;  and,  following 
the  finger,  read  upon  the  stone  of  the  neglected  grave  his  own 
name,  —  Ebenezer  Scrooge. 

"  Am  /  that  man  who  lay  upon  the  bed  ?  No,  Spirit !  O  no,  no  ! 
Spirit !  hear  me  !  I  am  not  the  man  I  was.  I  will  not  be  the  man 
I  must  have  been  but  for  this  intercourse.  Why  show  me  this,  if 
I  am  past  all  hope  ?  Assure  me  that  I  yet  may  change  these 
shadows  you  have  ^own  me  by  an  altered  life." 

For  the  first  time  the  kind  hand  faltered. 

"  I  will  honor  Christmas  in  my  heart,  and  try  to  keep  it  all  the 
year.  I  will  live  in  the  Past,  the  Present,  and  the  Future.  The 
Spirits  of  all  three  shall  strive  within  me.     I  will  not  shut  out  the 


542  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

lessons  that  they  teach.  O,  tell  me  I  may  sponge  away  the  writing 
on  this  stone  !  " 

Holding  up  his  hands  in  one  last  prayer  to  have  his  fate  reversed, 
he  saw  an  alteration  in  the  Phantom's  hood  and  dress.  It  shrunk, 
collapsed,  and  dwindled  down  into  a  bedpost. 

Yes,  and  the  bedpost  was  his  own.  The  bed  was  his  own,  the 
room  was  his  own.  Best  and  happiest  of  all,  the  Time  before  him 
was  his  own,  to  make  amends  in  ! 

He  was  checked  in  his  transports  by  the  churches  ringing  out  the 
lustiest  peals  he  had  ever  heard. 

Running  to  the  window,  he  opened  it,  and  put  out  his  head.  No 
fog,  no  mist,  no  night ;  clear,  bright,  stirring,  golden  day. 

"  What's  to-day  ? "  cried  Scrooge,  calling  downward  to  a  boy  in 
Sunday  clothes,  who  perhaps  had  loitered  in  to  look  about  him. 

"Eh?" 

"  What's  to-day,  my  fine  fellow  ?  " 

"To-day  !     Why,  Christmas  day." 

"  It's  Christmas  day !  I  haven't  missed  it.  Hallo,  my  fine 
fellow  !  " 

"  Hallo  !  " 

"  Do  you  know  the  Poulterer's,  in  the  next  street  but  one,  at  the 
corner  ?  " 

"  I  should  hope  I  did." 

"  An  intelligent  boy  !  A  remarkable  boy  !  Do  you  know  whether 
they've  sold  the  prize  Turkey  that  was  hanging  up  there  ?  Not  the 
httle  prize  Turkey,  —  the  big  one  ?  " 

"  What,  the  one  as  big  as  me  ?  " 

"What  a  delightful  boy!  It's  a  pleasure  to  talk  to  him.  Yes, 
my  buck  !  " 

"  It's  hanging  there  now." 

"  Is  it  !     Go  and  buy  it." 

"  Walk-ER  !  "  exclaimed  the  boy. 

"  No,  no,  I  am  in  earnest.  Go  and  buy  it,  and  tell  'em  to  bring  it 
here,  that  I  may  give  them  the  direction  where  to  take  it.  Come 
back  with  the  man,  and  I'll  give  you  a  shilling.  Come  back  with 
him  in  less  than  five  minutes,  and  I'll  give  you  half  a  crown  !  " 

The  boy  was  off  like  a  shot. 

"  I'll  send  it  to  Bob  Cratchit's  !  He  shan't  know  who  sends  it. 
It's  twice  the  size  of  Tiny  Tim.  Joe  Miller  never  made  such  a  joke 
as  sending  it  to  Bob's  will  be  !  " 

The  hand  in  which  he  wrote  the  address  was  not  a  steady  one  ; 


CHARLES   DICKENS.  543 

but  write  it  he  did,  somehow,  and  went  down  stairs  to  open  the  street 
door,  ready  for  the  coming  of  the  poulterer's  man. 

It  was  a  Turkey !  He  never  could  have  stood  upon  his  legs,  that 
bird.  He  would  have  snapped  'em  short  off  in  a  minute,  like  sticks 
of  sealing-wax. 

Scrooge  dressed  himself  "  all  in  his  best,"  and  at  last  got  out  into 
the  streets.  The  people  were  by  this  time  pouring  forth,  as  he  had 
seen  them  with  the  Ghost  of  Christmas  Present ;  and,  walking  with 
his  hands  behind  him,  Scrooge  regarded  every  one  with  a  delighted 
smile.  He  looked  so  irresistibly  pleasant,  in  a  word,  that  three  or 
four  good-humored  fellows  said,  "  Good  morning,  sir !  A  merry 
Christmas  to  you  !  "  And  Scrooge  said  often  afterwards,  that,  of 
all  the  blithe  sounds  he  had  ever  heard,  those  were  the  blithest  in 
his  ears. 

In  the  afternoon,  he  turned  his  steps  towards  his  nephew's  house. 

He  passed  the  door  a  dozen  times,  before  he  had  the  courage  to 
go  up  and  knock.     But  he  made  a  dash,  and  did  it. 

"Is  your  master  at  home,  my  dear.-*"  said  Scrooge  to  the  girl. 
Nice  girl  !     Very. 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Where  is  he,  my  love  ?  " 

"  He's  in  the  dining-room,  sir,  along  with  mistress." 

"  He  knows  me,"  said  Scrooge,  with  his  hand  already  on  the 
dining-room  lock.     "  I'll  go  in  here,  my  dear." 

"  Fred  !  " 

"  Why,  bless  my  soul !  "  cried  Fred,  "  who's  that  ?  "   . 

"  It's  I.  Your  uncle  Scrooge.  I  have  come  to  dinner.  Will  you 
let  me  in,  Fred .'' " 

Let  him  in  !  It  is  a  mercy  he  didn't  shake  his  arm  off.  He  was 
at  home  in  five  minutes.  Nothing  could  be  heartier.  His  niece 
looked  just  the  same.  So  did  Topper  when  he  came.  So  did  the 
plump  sister,  when  she  came.  So  did  every  one  when  they  came. 
Wonderful  party,  wonderful  games,  wonderful  unanimity,  won-der-ful 
happiness  !  " 

But  he  was  early  at  the  office  next  morning.  O,  he  was  early 
there.  If  he  could  only  be  there  first,  and  catch  Bob  Cratch  it 
coming  late  !     That  was  the  thing  he  had  set  his  heart  upon. 

And  he  did  it.  The  clock  struck  nine.  No  Bob.  A  quarter 
past.  No  Bob.  Bob  was  full  eighteen  minutes  and  a  half  behind 
his  time.  Scrooge  sat  with  his  door  wide  open,  that  he  might  see 
him  come  into  the  Tank. 


544  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

Bob's  hat  was  off,  before  he  opened  the  door  ;  his  comforter  too. 
He  was  on  his  stool  in  a  jiffy  ;  driving  away  with  his  pen,  as  if  he 
were  trying  to  overtake  nine  o'clock. 

"  Hallo  !  "  growled  Scroogej  in  his  accustomed  voice,  as  near  as 
he  could  feign  it.  "  What  do  you  mean  by  coming  here  at  this  time 
of  day?" 

"  I  am  very  sorry,  «iir.     I  am  behind  my  time." 

"You  are  ?    Yes.    I  think  you  are.    Step  this  way,  if  you  please." 

"  It's  only  once  u  year,  sir.  It  shall  not  be  repeated.  I  was 
making  rather  merry  yesterday,  sir." 

"  Now,  I'll  tell  you  what,  my  friend.  I  am  not  going  to  stand  this 
sort  of  thing  any  longer.  And  therefore,"  Scrooge  continued,  leap- 
ing from  his  stool,  and  giving  Bob  such  a  dig  in  the  waistcoat  that 
he  staggered  back  into  the  Tank  again,  —  "and  therefore  I  am  about 
to  raise  your  salary  !  " 

Bob  trembled,  and  got  a  little  nearer  to  the  ruler. 

"  A  merry  Christmas,  Bob  !  "  said  Scrooge,  with  an  earnestness 
that  could  not  be  mistaken,  as  he  clapped  him  on  the  back.  "  A 
merrier  Christmas,  Bob,  my  good  fellow,  than  I  have  given  you  for 
many  a  year !  I'll  raise  your  salar)^,  and  endeavor  to  assist  your 
struggling  family,  and  we  will  discuss  your  affairs  this  very  afternoon, 
over  a  Christmas  bowl  of  smoking  bishop,  Bob  !  Make  up  the 
fires,  and  buy  a  second  coal-scuttle  before  you  dot  another  i,  Bob 
Cratchit  !  " 

Scrooge  was  better  than  his  word.  He  did  it  all,  and  infinitely 
more  ;  and  to  Tiny  Tim,  who  did  not  die,  he  was  a  second  father. 
He  became  as  good  a  friend,  as  good  a  master,  and  as  good  a  man 
as  the  good  old  city  knew,  or  any  other  good  old  city,  town,  or 
borough  in  the  good  old  world.  Some  people  laughed  to  see  the 
alteration  in  him  ;  but  his  own  heart  laughed,  and  that  was  quite 
enough  for  him. 

He  had  no  further  intercourse  with  Spirits,  but  lived  in  that 
respect  upon  the  Total-Abstinence  Principle  ever  afterwards  ;  and  it 
was  always  said  of  him,  that  he  knew  how  to  keep  Christmas  well, 
if  any  man  alive  possessed  the  knowledge.  May  that  be  truly  said 
of  us,  and  all  of  us  !  And  so,  as  Tiny  Tim  observed,  God  Bless  Us, 
Every  One  ! 


AUBREY   DE   VERB.  54^ 


AUBREY  DE  VERE. 

Aubrey  Thomas  De  Vere,  third  son  of  the  late  Sir  Aubrey  De  Vere,  Bart.,  of  Curragh 
Chasa,  County  Limerick,  was  born  in  1814,  and  educated  at  the  University  of  Dublin.  He 
published  in  1842  The  Waldenses  and  other  Poems  ;  in  1843  The  Search  after  Proserpine  ;  in 
1856  Poems  Miscellaneous  and  Sacred  ;  in  1858  May  Carols  ;  in  1864  The  Infant  Bridal.  In 
1869,  in  this  country,  was  published  a  volume  of  poems,  dedicated  to  the  poet  Longfellow, 
entitled  Irish  Odes  and  other  Poems.  It  is  from  this  last  volume  that  tha  specimens  here 
given  have  been  taken.  His  prose  works  are  English  Misrule  and  Irish  Misdeeds  (1843), 
and  Wanderings  in  Greece  and  Turkey  (1850). 

He  is  a  highly-cultivated  gentleman,  of  agreeable  manners,  and  though  belonging  to  a 
Protestant  fami.y,  is  an  ardent  Catholic.  His  poems  are  of  a  very  high  order,  and  wili 
have  more  than  an  ephemeral  interest. 

[From  the  Ascent  of  the  Apennines.] 

The  plains  recede  ;  the  olives  dwindle  ; 
The  chestnut  slopes  fall  far  behind  ; 
The  skirts  of  the  billowy  pine- woods  kindle 
In  the  evening  lights  and  wind. 
Not  here  we  sigh  for  the  Alpine  glory 
Of  peak  primeval  and  death-pale  snow  ; 
For  the  cold  gray  green,  and  the  glacier  hoary, 
Or  blue  caves  that  yawn  below. 
The  landscape  here  is  mature  and  mellow; 
Fruit-hke,  not  flower-like  :  —  hills  embrowned  ; 
Ridges  of  purple  and  ledges  of  yellow 
From  red  stream  to  rock  church-crowned : 
'Tis  a  region  of  mystery,  hushed  and  sainted  : 
Serene  as  the  visions  of  artists  old 
When  the  thoughts  of  Dante  his  Giotto  painted :  — 
The  summit  is  reached  !     Behold  ! 
Like  a  sky  condensed  lies  the  lake  far  down  ; 
Its  curves  like  the  orbit  of  some  fair  planet  ; 
A  fire-wreath  falls  on  the  cliffs  that  frown 
Above  it  —  dark  walls  of  granite  ; 
The  hill-sides  with  homesteads  and  hamlets  glow ; 
With  snowy  villages  zoned  below ; 
Down  drops  by  the  island's  woody  shores 
The  bannered  barge  with  the  rhythmic  oars. 
No  solitude  here,  no  desert  cheerless 
Is  needed  pure  thoughts  or  hearts  to  guard  ; 
'Tis  a  populous  soHtude,  festal,  fearless, 
3 


54^  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

For  men  of  good-will  prepared. 

The  hermit  may  hide  in  the  wood,  but  o'er  it 

All  day  the  happy  chimes  are  rolled : 

The  black  crag  wooes  the  cloud,  but  before  it 

The  procession  winds  on  white-stoled. 

Farewell;  O  Nature  !     None  meets  thee  here 

But  his  heart  goes  up  to  a  happier  sphere, 

The  radiance  around  him  spread  forgetting. 

That  City  he  sees  on  whose  golden  walls 

No  light  of  a  rising  sun,  or  setting, 

Of  moon  or  of  planet  falls  ; 

For  the  Lamb  alone  is  the  light  thereof — 

The  City  of  Truth,  the  Kingdom  of  Love ! 


.     SONNETS   TO   WORDSWORTH. 

ON   VISITING   THE   DUDDON. 
I. 

So  long  as  Duddon  'twixt  his  cloud-girt  walls 

Thridding  the  woody  chambers  of  the  hills 

Warbles  from  vaulted  grot  artd  pebbled  halls 

Welcome  or  farewell  to  the  meadow  rills  ; 

So  long  as  linnets  chant  low  madrigals. 

Near  that  brown  nook  the  laborer  whistling  tills, 

Or  the  late-reddening  apple  forms  and  falls 

'Mid  brakes  whose  heart  the  autumnal  redbreast  thrills, 

So  long,  last  Poet  of  the  great  old  race, 

Sh^ll  thy  broad  song  through  England's  bosom  roll, 

A  river  singing  anthems  in  its  place. 

And  be  to  later  England  as  a  soul. 

Glory  to  Him  who  made  thee,  and  increase 

To  them  that  hear  thy  word,  of  love  and  peace  ! 


When  first  that  precinct  sacrosanct  I  trod, 
Autumn  was  there,  but  Autumn  just  begun  ; 
Fronting  the  portals  of  a  sinking  sun 
The  queen  of  quietude  in  vapor  stood, 
Her  sceptre  on  the  dimly-crimsoned  wood 
Resting  in  light.     The  year's  great  work  was  done ; 


CHARLOTTE   BRONTfe,  547 

Summer  had  vanished,  and  repinings  none 
Troubled  the  pulse  of  thoughtful  gratitude. 
Wordsworth  !  the  autumn  of  our  Enghsh  song 
Art  thou  :  —  'twas  thine  our  vesper  psalms  to  sing : 
Chaucer  sang  matins  ;  —  sweet  his  note  and  strong ; 
His  singing-robe  the  green,  white  garb  of  Spring : 
Thou  like  the  dying  year  art  rightly  stoled  — 
Pontific  purple  and  dark  harvest  gold. 


CHARLOTTE   BR0NT£. 

Charlotte  Bronte,  the  daughter  of  a  clergyman  of  Irish  descent,  was  bom  in  Yorkshire  in 
1816.  She  and  her  sisters  were  educated  at  a  private  school,  of  which  hardly  anything 
commendatory  could  be  said.  The  recollection  of  the  ill  usage,  the  desolation  which  the 
motherless  girls  experienced,  has  been  wrought  into  the  story  of  Jane  Eyre.  Charlotte  and 
two  of  her  sisters,  Emily  and  Anne,  published  a  volume  of  poems  in  1846  under  the  names 
of  Currer,  E.lis,  and  Acton  Bell ;  the  volume  had  only  a  moderate  success.  The  first  prose 
work  of  Charlotte  was  called  The  Professor,  which  was  refused  by  many  publishers,  and  was 
only  published  after  the  author's  death.  In  1847  Jane  Eyre  appeared,  and  was  at  once 
recognized  as  a  work  of  extraordinary  power.  Two  years  later  she  published  Shirley,  a 
far  more  agreeable  novel  than  the  first,  but  not  so  popular.  Villette,  the  author's  third 
novel,  contains  her  recollections  of  Brussels,  and  is  in  all  respects  a  most  charming  story.   - 

The  life  of  Charlotte  Bronte  was  not  a  happy  one.  The  family  was  poor  and  proud  ;  with 
capacity  for  the  highest  things,  she  was  compelled  to  teach  for  a  livelihood,  and  her  stories 
show  how  deeply  her  feelings  were  wounded  during  her  engagement  as  governess.  The 
two  sisters,  to  whom  she  was  tenderly  attached,  died  young ;  the  only  brother  did  the  family 
no  particular  credit ;  the  surroundings  of  the  parsonage  at  Haworth  were  bleak ;  but  all 
these  trials  only  developed  the  strength,  the  beauty,  and  tenderness  of  this  most  remarka- 
ble woman.  She  was  married  in  1854  to  her  father's  curate,  Rev.  Mr.  Nicholls,  and  died  in 
1855.     Her  Memoirs  have  been  written  by  Mrs.  Gaskell. 

It  is  difficult  to  make  selections  from  such  works  as  Jane  Eyre  or  Shirley  ;  but  the  reader 
who  takes  up  and  follows  either  story  is  soon  conscious  of  the  presence  of  an  original,  bril- 
liant, and  powerful  mind. 

[From  Shirley.] 

The  evening  was  still  and  warm  ;  close  and  sultry  it  even  prom- 
ised to  become.  Round  the  descending  sun  the  clouds  glowed  pur- 
ple :  summer  tints,  rather  Indian  than  English,  suffused  the  horizon, 
and  cast  rosy  reflections  on  hill-side,  house-front,  tree-bole ;  on 
winding  road,  and  undulating  pasture-ground.  The  two  girls  came 
down  from  the  fields  slowly :  by  the  time  they  reached  the  church- 
yard the  bells  were  hushed  ;  the  multitudes  were  gathered  into  the 
church  :  the  whole  scene  was  solitary. 

"  How  pleasant  and  calm  it  is  !  "  said  Caroline. 

"  And  how  hot  it  will  be  in  the  church  ! "  responded  Shirley ; 


548  HAND-BOOK   OF  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

'•'  and  what  a  dreary,  long  speech  Dr.  Boultby  will  make  !  and  how 
the  curates  will  hammer  over  their  prepared  orations  !  For  my  part, 
I  would  rather  not  enter." 

"  But  my  uncle  will  be  angry,  if  he  observes  our  absence." 

"  I  will  bear  the  brunt  of  his  wrath  :  he  will  not  devour  me.  I 
shall  be  sorry  to  miss  his  pungent  speech.  I  know  it  will  be  all 
sense  for  the  Church,  and  all  causticity  for  Schism  :  he'll  not  forget 
the  battle  of  Royd-lane.  I  shall  be  sorry  also  to  deprive  you  of 
Mr.  Hall's  sincere,  friendly  homily,  with  all  its  racy  Yorkshireisms ; 
but  here  I  must  stay.  The  gray  church  and  grayer  tombs  look 
divine  with  this  crimson  gleam  on  them.  Nature  is  now  at  her 
evening  prayers  :  she  is  kneeling  before  those  red  hills.  I  see  her 
prostrate  on  the  great  steps  of  her  altar,  praying  for  a  fair  night  for 
mariners  at  sea,  for  travellers  in  deserts,  for  lambs  on  moors,  and 
unfledged  birds  in  woods.  Caroline,  I*see  her !  and  I  will  tell  you 
what  she  is  like :  she  is  like  what  Eve  was  when  she  and  Adam 
stood  alone  on  earth." 

"  And  that  is  not  Milton's  Eve,  Shirley  ?  " 

"  Milton's  Eve  !  Milton's  Eve  !  I  repeat.  No,  she  is  not !  Cary, 
we  are  alone :  we  may  speak  what  we  think.  Milton  was  great ; 
but  was  he  good  .'*  His  brain  was  right,  how  was  his  heart  ?  He 
saw  Heaven  :  he  looked  down  on  Hell.  He  saw  Satan,  and  Sin  his 
daughter,  and  Death  their  horrible  offspring.  Angels  serried  before 
him  their  battalions  ;  the  long  lines  of  adamantine  shields  flashed 
back  on  his  blind  eyeballs  the  unutterable  splendor  of  heaven. 
Devils  gathered  their  legions  in  his  sight :  their  dim,  discrowned, 
and  tarnished  armies  passed,  rank  and  file,  before  him.  Milton  tried 
to  see  the  first  woman  ;  but,  Cary,  he  saw  her  not." 

"You  are  bold  to  say  so,  Shirley." 

"  Not  more  bold  than  faithful.  It  was  his  cook  that  he  saw  :  oi 
it  was  Mrs.  Gill,  as  I  have  seen  her,  making  custards  in  the  heat 
of  summer,  in  the  cool  dairy,  with  rose  trees  and  nasturtiums  about 
the  latticed  window,  preparing" a  cold  collation  for  the  rectors,  —  pre- 
serves and  'dulcet  creams,'  —  puzzled  'what  choice  to  choose  for 
delicacy  best ;  what  order  so  contrived  as  not  to  mix  tastes,  not  well 
joined,  inelegant ;  but  bring  taste  after  taste,  upheld  with  kindliest 
change.'  " 

"  All  very  well  too,  Shirley." 

"  I  would  beg  to  remind  him  that  the  first  men  of  the  earth  were 
Titans,  and  that  Eve  was  their  mother :  from  her  sprang  Saturn, 
Hyperion,  Oceanus ;  she  bore  Prometheus  —  " 


CHARLOTTE   BRONTfe.  549 

"  Pagan  that  you  are  !  what  does  that  signify  ?  " 

"  I  say  there  were  giants  on  the  earth  in  those  days :  giants  that 
strove  to  scale  heaven.  The  first  woman's  breast  that  heaved  with 
life  on  this  world  yielded  the  daring  which  could  contend  with  Om- 
nipotence :  the  strength  which  could  bear  a  thousand  years  of 
bondage  —  the  vitality  which  could  feed  that  vulture  death  through 
uncounted  ages  —  the  unexhausted  life  and  uncorrupted  excellence, 
sisters  to  immortality,  which,  after  millenniums  of  crimes,  struggles, 
and  woes,  would  conceive  and  bring  forth  a  Messiah.  The  first 
woman  was  heaven-born  :  vast  was  the  heart  whence  gushed  the 
well-spring  of  the  blood  of  nations  ;  and  grand  the  undegenerate 
head  where  rested  the  consort-crown  of  creation." 

"  She  coveted  an  apple,  and  was  cheated  by  a  snake  ;  but  you 
have  got  such  a  hash  of  Scripture  and  mythology  into  your  head 
that  there  is  no  making  any  sense  of  you.  You  have  not  yet  told 
me  what  you  saw  kneeling  on  those  hills." 

"  I  saw  —  I  now  see  —  a  woman-Titan :  her  robe  of  blue  air 
spreads  to  the  outskirts  of  the  heath,  where  yonder  flock  is  grazing  ; 
a  veil  white  as  an  avalanche  sweeps  from  her  head  to  her  feet,  and 
arabesques  of  hghtning  flame  on  its  borders.  Under  her  breast  I 
see  her  zone,  purple  like  that  horizon  :  through  its  blush  shines  the 
star  of  evening.     Her  steady  eyes  I  cannot  picture  ;  they  are  clear 

—  they  are  deep  as  lakes  —  they  are  lifted  and  full  of  worship  —  they 
tremble  with  the  softness  of  love  and  the  lustre  of  prayer.  Her 
forehead  has  the  expanse  of  a  cloud,  and  is  paler  than  the  early 
moon,  risen  long  before  dark  gathers  :  she  reclines  her  bosom  on 
the  ridge  of  Stilbro'  Moor ;  her  mighty  hands  are  joined  beneath 
it.  So  kneeling,  face  to  face,  she  speaks  to  God.  That  Eve  is  Je- 
hovah's daughter,  as  Adam  was  his  son." 

"  She  is  very  vague  and  visionary !  Come,  Shirley,  we  ought  to 
go  into  church." 

The  day  being  fine,  or  at  least  fair,  —  for  soft  clouds  curtained  the 
sun,  and  a  dim  but  not  chill  or  waterish  haze  slept  blue  on  the  hills, 

—  Caroline,  while  Shirley  was  engaged  with  her  callers,  had  per- 
suaded Mrs.  Pryor  to  assume  her  bonnet  and  summer  shawl,  and 
to  take  a  walk  with  her  up  towards  the  narrow  end  of  the  Hollow. 

Here,  the  opposing  sides  of  the  glen  approaching  each  other,  and 
becoming  clothed  with  brushwood  and  stunted  oaks,  formed  a  wooded 
ravine  ;  at  the  bottom  of  which  ran  the  mill-stream  in  broken,  un- 
quiet course,  struggling  with  many  stones,  chafing  against  rugged 


550  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

banks,  fretted  with  gnarled  tree-roots,  foaming,  gurgling,  battling  as 
it  went.  Here,  when  you  had  wandered  half  a  mile  from  the  mill, 
you  found  a  sense  of  deep  solitude  ;  found  it  in  the  shade  of  un- 
molested trees  ;  received  it  in  the  singing  of  many  birds,  for  which 
that  shade  made  a  home.  This  was  no  trodden  way  ;  the  freshness 
of  the  woodflowers  attested  that  foot  of  man  seldom  pressed  them  : 
the  abounding  wild-roses  looked  as  if  they  budded,  bloomed,  and 
faded  under  the  watch  of  solitude,  as  in  a  sultan's  harem.  -Here  you 
saw  the  sweet  azure  of  blue-bells,  and  recognized  in  pearl-white 
blossoms,  spangling  the  grass,  a  humble  type  of  some  starlit  spot  in 
space. 

Mrs.  Pryor  liked  a  quiet  walk  :  she  ever  shunned  highroads,  and 
sought  byways  and  lonely  lanes  :  one  companion  she  preferred  to 
total  solitude,  for  in  solitude  she  was  nervous  ;  a  vague  fear  of  an- 
noying encounters  broke  the  enjoyment  of  quite  lonely  rambles  ;  but 
she  feared  nothing  with  Caroline :  when  once  she  got  away  from 
human  habitations,  and  entered  the  still  demesne  of  Nature,  accom- 
panied by  this  one  youthful  friend,  a  propitious  change  seemed  to 
steal  over  her  mind  and  beam  in  her  countenance. 

To-day,  for  instance,  as  they  walked  along,  Mrs.  Pryor  talked  to 
her  companion  about  the  various  birds  singing  in  the  trees,  discrim- 
inated their  species,  and  said  something  about  their  habits  and  pecu- 
liarities. English  natural  history  seemed  familiar  to  her.  All  the 
wild  flowers  round  their  path  were  recognized  by  her :  tiny  plants 
springing  near  stones  and  peeping  out  of  chinks  in  old  walls  — 
plants  such  as  Carohne  had  scarcely  noticed  before  —  received  a 
name  and  an  intimation  of  their  properties  :  it  appeared  that  she 
had  minutely  studied  the  botany  of  English  fields  and  woods.  Hav- 
ing reached  the  head  of  the  ravine,  they  sat  down  together  on  a 
ledge  of  gray  and  mossy  rock  jutting  from  the  base  of  a  steep  green 
hill,  which  towered  above  them :  she  looked  round  her,  and  spoke 
of  the  neighborhood  as  she  had  once  before  seen  it  long  ago.  She 
alluded  to  its  changes,  and  compared  its  aspect  with  that  of  other 
parts  of  England ;  revealing  in  quiet,  unconscious  touches  of  de- 
scription, a  sense  of  the  picturesque,  an  appreciation  of  the  beauti- 
ful or  commonplace,  a  power  of  comparing  the  wild  with  the  cultured, 
the  grand  with  the  tame,  that  gave  to  her  discourse  a  graphic  charm 
as  pleasant  as  it  was  unpretending. 


JAMES   ANTHONY   FROUDE.  551 


JAMES   ANTHONY   FROUDE. 

James  Anthony  Froude  was  born  in  Totness,  Devonshire,  in  1818.  He  was  educated  at 
Oxford,  and  intended  at  first  to  enter  the  ministry,  but  soon  engaged  in  hterary  pursuits. 
The  work  by  which  he  is  known  is  his  History  of  England  from  the  fall  of  Wolsey  to'the 
death  of  Elizabeth.  Mr.  Froude  is  an  ardent  advocate  of  the  Anglican  Church,  and  the 
period  of  which  he  has  written  has  to  the  mind  of  a  churchman  the  completeness  of  an 
epjs ;  being  that  of  the  separation  from  Rome  and  the  establishment  of  the  National 
Chjrch.  This  is  the  key-note  of  the  History.  It  certainly  required  some  courage  to  ask 
the  world  to  reverse  the  general  verdict  against  Henry  VIII.,  but  Mr.  Froude  has  unflinch- 
ingly gone  over  the  mishaps  and  crimes  of  the  great  king,  with  plentiful  citations  from  State 
Papers ;  and,  though  he  does  not  make  him  a  saint,  we  are  led  to  believe  that  he  was  not 
quite  such  a  wretch  as  h2  has  been  painted.  In  like  manner  he  asks  us  wholly  to  disbelieve 
the  accuracy  of  the  popular  judgment  upon  the  characters  of  Queen  Elizabeth  and  o'.  Mary 
Stuart.  As  we  see  the  first  in  the  light  of  her  letters,  and  of  the  copious  diplomatic  papers 
of  the  time  (quoted  in  this  History),  she  appears  false,  impetuous,  wayward,'temp()rizing, 
and  parsimonious  to  dishonesty.  Neither  princes  nor  subjects  knew  wlien  to  trust  her 
word  :  she  was  now  as  alluring  as  her  mother,  and  now  as  merciless  as  her  father.  And  we 
are  told  that  the  splendor  and  stability  of  her  reign  are  wholly  due  to  her  able  ministers, 
without  whose  prudence  and  unselfish  loyalty  she  would  have  been  overthrown  by  her  ene- 
mies. For  the  Scottish  Queen  he  draws  an  even  darker  portrait  ;  the  beauty  of  an  angel 
covering  a  nature  crafty  and  treacherous,  destitute  of  the  honor  that  belongs  to  men,  as  well 
as  that  of  women,  consciously  using  her  charms  to  deceive  and  betray,  not  stopping  for 
murder  even,  and  so  overtaken  at  last  by  a  just  r^ribution.  No  period  of  history  has  been 
more  vigorously  fought  over  than  this  ;  and  such  is  the  conflict  of  testimony  that  it  is  diffi- 
cult now  to  be  assured  that  we  have  reached  just  conclusions  upon  any  disputed  point. 

Mr.  Froude  has  since  published  a  volume  of  historical  essays,  entitled  Short  Studies  on 
Great  Subjects.  This  work,  and  hi?  History  in  twelve  volumes,  have  been  fublished  in 
this  country. 

THE   MURDER   OF    DARNLEY  :  —  A    NEW   VIEW   OF   A   MUCH-BEWEPT 

HEROINE. 

[From  the  History  of  England.] 

Lord  Darnley  had  made  some  use  of  his  illness  ;  as  he  lay  be- 
tween life  and  death  he  had  come  to  understand  that  he  had  been  a 
fool,  and  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  had  been  thinking  seriously. 
When  the  Queen  entered  his  room  she  found  him  lying  on  his  couch, 
weak  and  unable  to  move.  Her  first  question  was  about  his  letter ; 
it  was  not  her  cue  to  irritate  him,  and  she  seemed  to  expostulate  on 
the  credulity  with  which  he  had  listened  to  calumnies  against  her. 
He  excused  himself  faintly.  She  allowed  her  manner  to  relax,  and 
she  inquired  about  the  cause  of  his  illness. 

A  soft  word  unlocked  at  once  the  sluices  of  Darnley's  heart ;  his 
passion  gushed  out  uncontrolled,  and  with  a  wild  appeal  he  threw 
himself  on  his  wife's  forgiveness. 


552  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

"  You  are  the  cause  of  it,"  he  said  ;  "  it  comes  only  from  you,  who 
will  not  pardon  my  faults  when  I  am  sorry  for  them.  I  have  done 
wrong,  I  confess  it ;  but  others  besides  me  have  done  wrong,  and 
you  have  forgiven  them,  and  I  am  but  young.  You  have  forgiven 
me  o^ten,  you  may  say  ;  but  may  not  a  man  of  my  age,  for  want  of 
counsel,  of  which  I  am  very  destitute,  fall  twice  or  thrice,  and  yet 
repent  and  learn  from  experience  ?  Whatever  I  have  done  wrong, 
forgive  me  ;  I  will  do  so  no  more.  Take  me  back  to  you  ;  let  me 
be  your  husband  again,  or  may  I  never  rise  from  this  bed.  Say  that 
it  shall  be  so,"  he  went  on  with  wild  eagerness  ;  "  God  knows  I  am 
punished  for  making  my  God  of  you  —  for  having  no  thought  but  of 
you." 

When  she  attempted  to  leave  the  room  he  implored  her  to  stay 
with  him.  He  had  been  told,  he  said,  that  she  had  brought  a  litter 
with  her  ;  did  she  mean  to  take  him  away  ? 

She  said  she  thought  the  air  of  Craigmillar  would  do  him  good  ; 
and,  as  he  could  not  sit  on  horseback,  she  had  contrived  a  means  by 
which  he  could  be  carried. 

The  name  of  Craigmillar  had  an  ominous  sound.  The  words 
were  kind,  but  there  was  perhaps  some  odd  glitter  of  the  eyes  not 
wholly  satisfactory. 

He  answered  that  if  she  would  promise  him  on  her  honor  to  live 
with  him  as  his  wife,  and  not  to  leave  him  any  more,  he  would  go 
with  her  to  the  world's  end,  and  care  for  nothing ;  if  not,  he  would 
stay  where  he  was. 

It  was  for  that  purpose,  she  said,  tenderly,  that  she  had  com.e  to 
Glasgow ;  the  separation  had  injured  both  of  them,  and  it  was  time 
that  it  should  end  :  "  and  so  she  granted  his  desire,  and  promised  it 
should  be  as  he  had  spoken,  and  thereupon  gave  him  her  hand  and 
faith  of  her  body  that  she  would  love  him  and  use  him  as  her  hus- 
band ;  "  she  would  wait  only  till  his  health  was  restored  ;  he  should 
use  cold  baths  at  Craigmillar,  and  then  all  should  be  well. 

She  had  gained  her  point ;  he  would  go  with  her,  and  that  was  all 
she  wanted.  A  slight  cloud  rose  between  them  before  she  left  the 
room.  He  was  impatient  at  her  going,  and  complained  that  she 
would  not  stay  with  him :  she  on  her  part  said  that  he  must  keep 
her  promise  secret ;  the  Lords  would  be  suspicious  of  their  agree- 
ment, and  must  not  know  of  it. 

He  did  not  like  the  mention  of  the  Lords  ;  the  Lords,  he  said,  had 


JAMES  ANTHONY  FROUDE.  553 

no  right  to  interfere ;  he  would  never  excite  the  Lords  against  her, 
and  she,  he  trusted,  would  not  again  make  a  party  against  him. 

She  said  that  their  past  disagreements  had  been  no  fault  of  hers 
He,  and  he  alone,  was  to  blame  for  all  that  had  gone  wrong. 

With  these  words  she  left  him.  Mary  Stuart  was  an  admirable 
actress  ;  rarely,  perhaps,  on  the  world's  stage,  has  there  been  a  more 
skilful  player.  But  the  game  was  a  difficult  one  ;  she  had  still  some 
natural  compunction,  and  the  performance  was  not  quite  perfect. 

Darnley,  perplexed  between  hope  and  fear,  affection  and  misgiv- 
ing, sent  for  Crawford.  He  related  the  conversation  which  had 
passed,  so  far  as  he  could  recollect  it,  word  for  word,  and  asked  him 
what  he  thought. 

Crawford,  unblinded  by  passion,  answered  at  once  "  that  he  liked 
it  not ;  "  if  the  Queen  wished  to  have  him  Hving  with  her,  why  did 
she  not  take  him  to  Holyrood  ?  Craigmillar  —  a  remote  and  lonely 
country  house  —  was  no  proper  place  for  him  ;  if  he  went  with  her, 
he  would  go  rather  as  her  prisoner  than  her  husband. 

Darnley  answered  that  he  thought  little  less  himself;  he  had  but 
her  promise  to  trust  to,  and  he  feared  what  she  might  mean  ;  he  had 
resolved  to  go,  however ;  "  he  would  trust  himself  in  her  hands 
though  she  should  cut  his  throat." 

And  Mary,  what  was  her  occupation  after  parting  thus  from  her 
husband  ?  Late  into  the  night  she  sat  writing  an  account  of  that 
day's  business  to  her  lover,  "  with  whom,"  as  she  said,  "  she  had  left 
her  heart."  She  told  him  of  her  meeting  with  Crawford,  and  of  her 
coming  to  the  King ;  she  related,  with  but  slight  verbal  variations, 
Darnley's  passionate  appeal  to  her,  as  Darnley  himself  had  told  it 
to  his  friend. 

The  next  morning  the  Queen  added  a  few  closing  words  : 
"  If  in  the  mean  time  I  hear  nothing  to  the  contrary,  according  to 
my  commission,  I  will  bring  the  man  to  Craigmillar  on  Monday,  — 
where  he  will  be  all  Wednesday,  —  and  I  will  go  to  Edinburgh  to 
draw  blood  of  me.  Provide  for  all  things  and  discourse  upon  it  first 
with  yourself." 

St.  Mary's-in-the-Fields,  called  commonly  Kirk-a-Field,  was  a 
roofless  and  ruined  church,  standing  just  inside  the  old  town  walls 
of  Edinburgh,  at  the  north-western  corner  of  the  present  College. 
Adjoining  it  there  stood  a  quadrangular  building  which  had  at  one 
time  belonged  to  the  Dominican  monks.      The   north  front  was 


554  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

built  along  the  edge  of  the  slope  which  descends  to  the  Cowgate ; 
the  south  side  contained  a  low  range  of  unoccupied  rooms  which 
had  been  "  priests'  chambers  ;  "  the  east  consisted  of  offices  and 
servants'  rooms  ;  the  principal  apartments  in  the  dwelling,  into 
which  the  place  had  been  converted,  were  in  the  western  wing, 
which  completed  the  square.  Under  the  windows  there  was  a  nar- 
row strip  of  grass-plat  dividing  the  house  from  the  town  wall ;  and 
outside  the  wall  were  gardens  into  which  there  was  an  opening 
through  the  cellars  by  an  underground  passage.  The  principal,  gate- 
way faced  north,  and  direct  into  the  quadrangle. 

Here  it  was  that  Paris  found  Bothwell  with  Sir  James  Balfour. 
He  delivered  his  letter  and  gave  his  message.  The  Earl  wrote  a 
few  words  in  reply.  "  Commend  me  to  the  Queen,"  he  said  as  he 
gave  the  note,  "  and  tell  her  that  all  will  go  well.  Say  that  Balfour 
and  I  have  not  slept  all  night,  that  everything  is  arranged,  and  that 
the  King's  lodgings  are  ready  for  him.  I  have  sent  her  a  diamond. 
You  may  say  I  would  send  my  heart  too  were  it  in  my  power  — 
but  she  has  it  already." 

A  few  hours  later  she  was  on  the  road  with  her  victim.  He  could 
be  moved  but  slowly.  She  was  obliged  to  rest  with  him  two  days  at 
Linlithgow  ;  and  it  was  not  till  the  30th  that  she  was  able  to  bring 
him  to  Edinburgh.  As  yet  he  knew  nothing  of  the  change  of  his 
destination,  and  supposed  that  he  was  going  on  to  Craigmillar. 
Bothwell,  however,  met  the  cavalcade  outside  the  gates,  and  took 
charge  of  it.  No  attention  was  paid  either  to  the  exclamations  of 
the  attendants,  or  the  remonstrances  of  Darnley  himself ;  he  was 
informed  that  the  Kirk-a-Field  house  was  most  convenient  for  him, 
and  to  Kirk-a-Field  he  was  conducted. 

"The  lodgings"  prepared  for  him  were  in  the  west  wing,  which 
was  divided  from  the  rest  of  the  house  by  a  large  door  at  the  foot 
of  the  staircase.  A  passage  ran  along  the  ground  floor,  from  which 
a  room  opened  which  had  been  fitted  up  for  the  Queen.  At  the 
head  of  the  stairs  a  similar  passage  led  first  to  the  King's  room,  — 
which  was  immediately  over  that  of  the  Queen,  —  and  farther  on  to 
closets  and  rooms  for  the  servants. 

Here  it  was  that  Darnley  was  established  during  the  last  hours 
which  he  was  to  know  on  earth.  The  keys  of  the  doors  were  given 
ostentatiously  to  his  groom  of  the  chamber,  Thomas  Nelson  ;  the 
Earl  of  Bothwell  being  already  in  possession  of  duplicates.  The 
door  from  the  cellar  into  the  garden  had  no  lock,  but  the  servants 


JAMES   ANTHONY   FROUDE.  555 

were  told  that  it  could  be  secured  with  bolts  from  within.  The 
rooms  themselves  had  been  comfortably  furnished,  and  a  handsome 
bed  had  been  set  up  for  the  King  with  new  hangings  of  black  velvet. 
The  Queen,  however,  seemed  to  think  that  they  would  be  injured  by 
the  splashing  from  Darnley's  bath,  and  desired  that  they  might  be 
changed.  Being  a  person  of  ready  expedients,  too,  she  suggested 
that  the  door  at  the  bottom  of  the  staircase  was  not  required  for 
protection.  She  had  it  taken  down  and  turned  into  a  cover  for  the 
bath- vat;  "so  that  there  was  nothing  left  to  stop  the  passage  into 
the  said  chamber  but  only  the  portal  door." 

The  Queen  meanwhile  spent  her  days  at  her  husband's  side, 
watching  over  his  convalescence  with  seemingly  anxious  affection, 
and  returning  only  to  sleep  at  Holyrood. 

After  a  few  days  her  apartment  at  Kirk-a-Field  was  made  habita- 
ble ;  a  bed  was  set  up  there  in  which  she  could  sleep,  and  particular 
directions  were  given  as  to  the  part  of  the  room  where  it  was  to 
stand.  Paris  through  some  mistake  misplaced  it.  "  Fool  that  you 
are,"  the  Queen  said  to  him  when  she  saw  it,  "  the  bed  is  not  to 
stand  there  ;  move  it  yonder  to  the  other  side."  She  perhaps  meant 
nothing,  but  the  words  afterwards  seemed  ominously  significant.  A 
powder-barrel  was  to  be  lighted  in  that  room  to  blow  the  house  and 
every  one  in  it  into  the  air.  They  had  placed  the  bed  on  the  spot 
where  the  powder  was  to  stand,  immediately  below  the  bed  of  the 
King. 

Whatever  she  meant,  she  contrived  when  it  was  moved  to  pass 
two  nights  there.  The  object  was,  to  make  it  appear  as  if  in  what- 
ever was  to  follow  her  own  life  had  been  aimed  at  as  well  as  her 
husband's.  Wednesday,  the  5th,  she  slept  there,  and  Friday,  the 
7th,  and  then  her  penance  was  almost  over,  for  on  Saturday  the 
thing  was  to  have  been  done. 

So  at  last  came  Sunday,  eleven  months  exactly  from  the  day  of 
Rizzio's  murder ;  and  Mary  Stuart's  words  that  she  never  would 
rest  till  that  dark  business  was  revenged  were  about  to  be  fulfilled. 

It  was  a  high  day  at  the  Court ;  Sebastian,  one  of  the  musicians, 
was  married  in  the  afternoon  to  Margaret  Cawood,  Mary  Stuart's 
favorite  waiting-woman.  When  the  service  was  over,  the  Queen 
took  an  early  supper  with  Lady  Argyle,  and  afterwards,  accompanied 
by  Cassilis,  Huntley,  and  the  Earl  of  Argyle  himself,  she  went  as 


556  HAND-BOOK   OF  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

usual  to  spend  the  evening  with  her  husband,  and  professed  to  in- 
tend to  stay  the  night  with  him.  The  hours  passed  on.  She  was 
more  than  commonly  tender  ;  and  Darnley,  absorbed  in  her  caresses, 
paid  no  attention  to  sounds  in  the  room  below  him,  which,  had 
he  heard  them,  might  have  disturbed  his  enjoyment. 

There  was  a  pause,  —  the  length  of  a  Paternoster,  —  when  the 
Queen  suddenly  recollected  that  there  was  a  masque  and  a  dance  at 
the  Palace  on  the  occasion  of  the  marriage,  and  that  she  had  prom- 
ised to  be  present.  She  rose,  and,  with  many  regrets  that  she  could 
not  stay  as  she  intended,  kissed  her  husband,  put  a  ring  on  his 
finger,  wished  him  good  night,  and  went.  The  lords  followed  her. 
As  she  left  the  room,  she  said,  as  if  by  accident,  "  It  was  just  this 
time  last  year  that  Rizzio  was  slain." 

In  a  few  moments  the  gay  train  was  gone.  The  Queen  walked 
back  to  the  glittering  halls  in  Holyrood  ;  Darnley  was  left  alone  with 
his  page,  Taylor,  who  slept  in  his  room,  and  his  two  servants.  Nel- 
son and  Edward  Seymour.  Below  in  the  darkness,  Bothwell's  two 
followers  shivered  beside  the  powder  heap,  and  listened  with  hushed 
breath  till  all  was  still. 

The  King,  though  it  was  late,  was  in  no  mood  for  sleep,  and 
Mary's  last  words  sounded  awfully  in  his  ears.  "She  was  very 
kind,"  he  said  to  Nelson,  "but  why  did  she  speak  of  Davie's 
slaughter  ?  " 

Just  then  Paris  came  back  to  fetch  a  fur  wrapper  which  the  Queen 
had  left,  and  which  she  thought  too  pretty  to  be  spoiled. 

"  What  will  she  do  ?"  Darnley  said  again  when  he  was  gone  ;  "  it 
is  very  lonely." 

The  shadow  of  death  was  creeping  over  him ;  he  was  no  longer 
the  random  boy  who  two  years  before  had  come  to  Scotland  filled 
with  idle  dreams  of  vain  ambition.  Sorrow,  suffering,  disease,  and 
fear  had  done  their  work.  He  was  said  to  have  opened  his  Prayer- 
book,  and  to  have  read  over  the  55th  Psalm,  which,  by  a  strange 
coincidence,  was  in  the  English  service  for  the  day,  that  was 
dawning. 

If  his  servant's  tale  was  true,  these  are  the  last  words  that  passed 
the  lips  of  Mary  Stuart's  husband  :  — 

"  Hear  my  prayer,  O  Lord,  and  hide  not  thyself  from  my  petition. 

"  My  heart  is  disquieted  within  me,  and  the  fear  of  death  is  fallen 
upon  me. 


JAMES   ANTHONY   FROUDE.  557 

"  Fearfulness  and  trembling  are  come  upon  me,  and  an  horrible 
dread  hath  overwhelmed  me. 

"It  is  not  an  open  enemy  that  hath  done  me  this  dishonor,  for 
then  I  could  have  borne  it. 

"It  was  even  thou,  my  companion,  my  guide,  and  my  own  familiar 
friend." 

Forlorn  victim  of  a  cruel  time!  Twenty-one  years  old  —  no 
more.  At  the  end  of  one  hour  he  went  to  bed,  with  his  page  at  his 
side.  An  hour  later  they  two  were  lying  dead  in  the  garden  under 
the  stars. 

The  exact  facts  of  the  murder  were  never  known  —  only  at  two 
o'clock  that  Monday  morning,  a  "  crack "  was  heard  which  made 
the  drowsy  citizens  of  Edinburgh  turn  in  their  sleep,  and  brought 
down  all  that  side  of  Balfour's  house  of  Kirk-a-field  in  a  confused 
heap  of  dust  and  ruin.  Nelson,  the  sole  survivor,  went  to  bed  and 
slept  when  he  left  his  master,  and  "  knew  nothing  till  he  found  the 
house  falling  about  him  ;  "  Edward  Seymour  was  blown  in  pieces  ; 
but  Darnley  and  his  page  were  found  forty  yards  away,  beyond  the 
town  wall,  under  a  tree,  with  "no  sign  of  fire  on  them,"  and  with 
their  clothes  scattered  at  their  side. 

Some  said  that  they  were  smothered  in  their  sleep ;  some,  that 
they  were  taken  down  into  a  stable  and  "  wirried  ;  "  some,  that, 
"  hearing  the  keys  grate  in  the  doors  below  them,  they  started  from 
their  beds,  and  were  flying  down  stairs,  when  they  were  caught  and 
strangled."  Hay  and  Hepburn  told  one  consistent  story  to  the  foot 
of  the  scaffold  :  — 

When  the  voices  were  silent  overhead,  they  lit  the  match  and 
fled,  locking  the  doors  behind  them.  In  the  garden  they  found 
Bothwell  watching  with  his  friends,  and  they  waited  there  till  the 
house  blew  up,  when  they  made  off,  and  saw  no  more.  It  was 
thought,  however,  that  in  dread  of  torture  they  left  the  whole  dark 
truth  untold  ;  and  over  the  events  of  that  a  horrible  mist  still  hangs, 
unpenetrated  and  unpenetrable  forever. 


5S8  HAND-BOOK  OF  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 


CHARLES    KINGSLEY. 

The  Rev.  Charles  Kingsley  was  bom  in  Devonshire  in  1819;  he  was  educated  at  King's 
College,  London,  and  Magdalene  College,  Cambridge.  He  entered  the  service  of  the 
church  and  became  Rector  of  Eversley  —  a  position  which  he  still  retains.  He  is  a  man  of 
marked  character,  holding  indeisendent  opinions,  and  never  shrinking  from  defending  them. 
His  writings  are  full  of  his  own  energy,  and  all  are  intended  to  interest  the  public  in  meas- 
ures of  reform.  Had  he  been  less  vehement  he  would  have  been  a  better  literary  artist ;  as 
it  is,  his  best  works  have  few  passages  that  can  be  quoted  as  specimens  of  sty'.e.  His  first 
work  was  in  verse  —  A  Saint's  Tragedy.  The  next  was  Alton  Locke  —  a  powerful  but  pain- 
ful story,  written  in  the  interest  of  the  working  classes,  and  directed  against  the  inequality 
of  English  laws  and  the  oppression  caused  by  hereditary  customs.  This  was  followed  by 
Yeast,  — a  Problem  (the  title  page  being  something  like  a  conundrum),  —  Phaethon,  Hypa- 
tia  (a  story  of  the  early  Christian  Church),  Westward  Ho  !  (a  novel  of  maritime  adventure 
in  the  time  of  Queen  Elizabeth),  Glaucus  or  Wonders  of  the  Shore,  Two  Years  Ago,  a  poem 
in  hexameters  entitled  Andromeda,  and  a  volume  of  Lectures,  Essays,  and  Miscellanies. 

BALLAD. 

Three  fishers  went  sailing  out  into  the  west, 

Out  into  the  west,  as  the  sun  went  down  ; 
Each  thought  on  the  woman  who  loved  him  the  best. 

And  the  children  stood  watching  them  out  of  the  town. 
For  men  must  work,  and  women  must  weep, 
And  there's  little  to  earn,  and  many  to  keep, 

Though  the  harbor  bar  be  moaning. 

Three  wives  sat  up  in  the  light-house  tower, 

And  they  trimmed  the  lamps  as  the  sun  went  down ; 

They  looked  at  the  squall,  and  they  looked  at  the  shower. 
And  the  night-rack  came  rolling  up  ragged  and  brown. 

But  men  must  work,  and  women  must  weep, 

Though  storms  be  sudden  and  waters  deep. 
And  the  harbor  bar  be  moaning. 

Three  corpses  lay  out  on  the  shining  sands 
In  the  morning  gleam  as  the  tide  went  down. 

And  the  women  are  weeping  and  wringing  their  hands, 
For  those  who  will  never  come  back  to  the  town. 

For  men  must  work,  and  women  must  weep. 

And  the  sooner  it's  over  the  sooner  to  sleep, 
And  good  by  to  the  bar  and  its  moaning. 


CHARLES   KINGSLEY.  —  ARTHUR    HUGH    CLoUGH.  559 


"  O  Mary,  go  and  call  the  cattle  hoAie, 
And  call  the  cattle  home, 
And  call  the  cattle  home, 
Across  the  sands  o'  Dee  ;  " 
The  western  wind  was  wild  and  dankwi'  foam. 
And  all  alone  went  she. 

The  creeping  tide  came  up  along  the  sand, 
And  o'er  and  o'er  the  sand, 
And  round  and  round  the  sand. 
As  far  as  eye  could  see  ; 
The  bhnding  mist  came  down  and  hid  tht  land-^ 
And  never  home  came  she. 

"  O,  is  it  weed,  or  fish,  or  floating  hair  — 
A  tress  o'  golden  hair, 
O'  drowned  maiden's  hair, 
Above  the  nets  at  sea  ? 
Was  never  salmon  yet  that  shone  so  fair 
Among  the  stakes  on  Dee." 

They  rowed  her  in  across  the  rolling  foam, 
The  cruel,  crawling  foam. 
The  cruel,  hungry  foam. 

To  her  grave  beside  the  sea  ; 
But  still  the  boatmen  hear  her  call  the  cattle  home, 
Across  the  sands  o'  Dee. 


ARTHUR    HUGH    CLOUGH. 

Anhur  Hugh  Clough  was  born  in  Liverpool  in  1819,  and  was  sent  very  young  to  Rugby. 
He  rose  to  the  highest  rank  in  the  school,  and  his  distinguished  master,  and  the  well- 
known  chronicler  of  ''  School  Days,"  have  referred  to  his  scholarship  and  pure  manly  char- 
acter with  a  just  pride.  He  entered  the  University  of  Oxford,  and,  upon  graduation,  was 
elected  a  Fellow,  and  afterwards  Tutor,  of  Oriel  College.  He  resigned  his  place  in  1848, 
and  travelled  on  the  continent  during  that  year  of  uprising.  In  1852  he  came  to  this  coun- 
try, and  resided  at  Cambridge,  but  the  following  year  returned  to  fill  a  place  in  the  depart- 
ment of  Education  in  the  Privy  Council.  His  labors  were  onerous  and  exhausting,  and  at 
length  his  health  gave  way.     He  went  abroad  in  1861,  and  died  at  Florence. 

His  poems  have  been  published  by  Messrs.  Ticknor  &  Fields,  with  a  beautiful  and 
touching  memoir  by  Charles  E.  Norton.  The  work  to  which  he  devoted  many  of  his  best 
years  was  the  revision  of  Dryden's  translation  of  Plutarch's  Lives.     The  "  revision  "  was 


StO  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

so  thorough  as  to  be  substantially  a  new  translation  ;  and  the  accurate  scholarship  and  ex- 
quisite taste  of  Clough  have  made  this  a  standard  work,  needing  no  further  touches  until 
time  shall  render  the  best  English  obsolete. 

Mr.  Clough  was  a  reserved,  quiet  man,  with  a  sweet  simplicity  of  manner  rare  even 
among  poets  and  scholars.  His  attachment  to  his  American  friends  and  to  republican 
principles  was  strong ;  and  it  may  be  mentioned,  to  show  his  self-denying  generosity,  that, 
during  the  Irish  famine  in  1847,  while  Tutor  at  Oxford,  he  advocated  and  practised  a  rigid 
abstinence  from  luxuries,  in  order  to  relieve  the  distress  in  the  sister  island. 

THE   BOTHIE   OF   TOBER-NA-VUOLICH. 

There  is  a  stream,  I  name  not  its  name,  lest  inquisitive  tourist 
Hunt  it,  and  make  it  a  lion,  and  get  it  at  last  into  guide-books, 
Springing  far  off  from  a  loch  unexplored  in  the  folds  of  great  moun- 
tains. 
Falling  two  miles  through  rowan  and  stunted  alder,  enveloped 
Then  for  four  more  in  a  forest  of  pine,  where  broad  and  ample 
Spreads,  to  convey  it,  the  glen  with  heathery  slopes  on  both  sides  : 
Broad  and  fair  the  stream,  with  occasional  falls  and  narrows  ; 
But,  where  the  glen  of  its  course  approaches  the  vale  of  the  river, 
Met  and  blocked  by  a  huge  interposing  mass  of  granite, 
Scarce  by  a  channel  deep-cut,  raging  up,  and  raging  onward. 
Forces  its  flood  through  a  passage  so  narrow  a  lady  would  step  it. 
There,  across  the  great  rocky  wharves,  a  wooden  bridge  goes. 
Carrying  a  path  to  the  forest ;  below,  three  hundred  yards,  say, 
Lower  in  level  some  twenty-five  feet,  through  flats  of  shingle, 
Stepping-stones  and  a  cart-track  cross  in  the  open  valley. 
But  in  the  interval  here  the  boiling,  pent-up  water 
Frees  itself  by  a  final  descent,  attaining  a  basin. 
Ten  feet  wide  and  eight.een  long,  with  whiteness  and  fury 
Occupied  partly,  but  mostly  pellucid,  pure,  a  mirror  ; 
Beautiful  there  for  the  color  derived  from  green  rocks  under  ; 
Beautiful,  most  of  all,  where  beads  of  foam  uprising 
Mingle  their  clouds  of  white  with  the  delicate  hue  of  the  stillness. 
Cliff  over  cliff  for  its  sides,  with  rowan  and  pendent  birch  boughs, 
Here  it  lies,  unthought  of  above  at  the  bridge  and  pathway, 
Still  more  enclosed  from  below  by  wood  and  rocky  projection. 
You  are  shut  in,  left  alone  with  yourself  and  perfection  of  water. 
Hid  on  all  sides,  left  alone  with  yourself  and  the  goddess  of  bathing. 
Here,  the  pride  of  the  plunger,  you  stride  the  fall  and  clear  it ; 
Here,  the  delight  of  the  bather,  you  roll  in  beaded  sparklings, 
Here  into  pure  green  depth  drop  down  from  lofty  ledges. 
Hither,  a  month  agone,  they  had  come,  and  discovered  it ;  hither 
(Long  a  design,  but  long  unaccountably  left  unaccomplished). 


ARTHUR  HUGH  CLOUGH.  5OI 

Leaving  the  well-known  bridge  and  pathway  above  to  the  forest, 
Turning  below  from  the  track  of  the  carts  over  stone  and  shingle, 
Piercing  a  wood,  and  skirting  a  narrow  and  natural  causeway 
Under  the  rocky  wall  that  hedges  the  bed  of  the  streamlet,' 
Rounded  a  craggy  point,  and  saw  on  a  sudden  before  them 
Slabs  of  rock,  and  a  tiny  beach,  and  perfection  of  water, 
Picture-like  beauty,  seclusion  sublime,  and  the  goddess  of  bathing. 
There  they  bathed,  of  course,  and  Arthur,  the  glory  of  headers. 
Leapt  from  the  ledges  with  Hope,  he  twenty  feet,  he  thirty ; 
There,  overbold,  great  Hobbes  from  a  ten-foot  height  descended, 
Prone,  as  a  quadruped,  prone  with  hands  and  feet  protending  ; 
There  in   the   sparkling  champagne,  ecstatic,  they  shrieked,  and 

shouted. 
<'  Hobbes's  Gutter  "  the  Piper  entitles  the  spot,  profanely, 
Hope  "  the  Glory  "  would  have,  after  Arthur,  the  glory  of  headers  •. 
But,  for  before  they  departed,  in  shy  and  fugitive  reflex 
Here  in  the  eddies  and  there  did  the  splendor  of  Jupiter  glimmer, 
Adam  adjudged  it  the  name  of  Hesperus,  star  of  the  evening. 
Hither,  to  Hesperus,  now,  the  star  of  evening  above  them, 
Come  in  their  lonelier  walk  the  pupils  twain  and  Tutor  ; 
Turned  from  the  track  of    the  carts,  and  passing  the  stone  and 

shingle. 
Piercing  the  wood,  and  skirting  the  stream  by  the  natural  causeway, 
Rounded  the  craggy  point,  and  now  at  their  ease  looked  up  ;  and 
Lo,  on  the  rocky  edge,  regardant,  the  Glory  of  headers, 
Lo,  on  the  beach,  expecting  the  plunge,  not  cigarless,  the  Piper.  — 
And  they  looked,  and  wondered,  incredulous,  looking  yet  once  more. 
Yes,  it  was  he,  on  the  ledge,  bare-limbed,  an  Apollo,  down-gazing. 
Eying  one  moment  the  beauty,  the  life,  ere  he  flung  himself  in  it. 
Eying  through  eddying  green  waters  the  green-tinting  floor  under- 
neath them. 
Eying  the  bead  on  the  surface,  the  bead,  like  a  cloud,  rising  to  it, 
Drinking  in  deep  in  his  soul,  the  beautiful  hue  and  the  clearness, 
Arthur,  the  shapely,  the  brave,  the  unboasting,  the  glory  of  headers  ; 
Yes,  and  with  fragrant  weed,  by  his  knapsack,  spectator  and  critic. 
Seated  on  slab  by  the  margin,  the  Piper,  the  Cloud-compeller. 
36 


562 


HAND-BOOK   OF  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 


QUA   CURSUM   VENTUS. 


As  ships,  becalmed  at  eve,  that  lay 
With  canvas  drooping,  side  by  side, 

Two  towers  of  sail  at  dawn  of  day 
Are  scarce,  long  leagues  apart,  descried  ; 

When  fell  the  night,  upsprung  the  breeze, 
And  all  the  darkling  hours  they  plied. 

Nor  dreamt  but  each  the  self-same  seas 
By  each  was  cleaving,  side  by  side  : 

E'en  so  —  but  why  the  tale  reveal 
Of  those  whom,  year  by  year  unchanged. 

Brief  absence  joined  anew  to  feel. 
Astounded,  soul  from  soul  estranged  ? 

At  c'e:d  of  night  their  sails  were  filled. 
And  onward  each  rejoicing  steered  :  — 


Ah,  neither  blame,  for  neither  willed. 
Or  wist,  what  first  with  dawn  appeared  ! 

To  veer,  how  vain  !     On,  onward  strain, 
Brave  barks  !     In  light,  in  darkness  too. 

Through    winds    and    tides    one     compass 
guides,  — 
To  that,  and  your  own  selves,  be  true. 

But  O  blithe  breeze,  and  O  great  seas. 
Though  ne'er,  that  earliest  parting  past, 

On  your  wide  plain  they  join  again. 
Together  lead  them  home  at  last  ! 

One  port,  methought,  alike  they  sought. 
One  purpose  hold  where'er  they  fare,  — 

O  bounding  breeze,  O  rushing  seas. 
At  last,  at  last,  unite  them  there  ! 


JOHN    RUSKIN. 

John  Ruskin  was  born  in  London  in  1819,  and  graduated  at  Oxford  in  1842.  He  has 
been,  and  still  is,  an  enthusiastic  student  of  art.  With  his  theories,  and  especially  with 
the  ju  tice  of  setting  Turner  above  all  i:revious  masters  of  landscape  painting,  we  have 
nothing  to  do :  it  is  Ruskin  the  writer  that  is  to  be  considered.  And  certainly  the  acute 
and  patient  observation  of  details,  the  broad  generalizations  of  studies,  the  passionate  love 
of  nature,  the  delicate  sense  of  color  and  perspective,  and  the  philo.ophic  power  that  com- 
bines all  these  in  sentences  that  are  as  luminous  and  grand  as  nature  itself,  are  to  be  seen 
nowhere  but  in  the  pages  of  Ruskin. 

The  Modern  Paiiiters,  from  which  the  following  extracts  a<-e  taken,  is  a  work  in  five  vol- 
umes, published  at  long  intervals ;  and  the  student  may  be  amused  to  learn  that  in  the 
last  one  (1857)  the  later  manner  of  Turner  is  severely  criticised.  Artist  and  critic,  sailing 
in  opposite  directions,  had  met  and  confronted  each  other  on  the  other  side  of  the  sphere. 
The  other  works  of  our  a  ithor  are  The  Seven  Lamps  of  Architecture,  and  The  Stones  of 
Venice,  both  admirably  illustrated  ;  also,  The  Two  Paths,  Elements  of  Drawing,  Lectures 
on  Architecture  and  Painting,  besides  many  contributions  to  periodicals. 

Mr.  Ruskin  claims  that  the  Pre-Raphaelite  schoo'  of  painting  is  a  development  of  his 
original  ideas  —  an  honor  that  some  persons  will  not  try  to  aprropriate.  Of  all  living  Eng- 
lishmen, he  has  shown  the  most  intense  insular  prejudice  against  the  free  institutions  and 
the  people  of  the  United  States. 


[From  Modern  Painters.] 
KNOWLEDGE   THE   ONLY   BASIS   OF   CRITICISM. 

Ask  the  connoisseur,  who  has  scampered  over  all  Europe,  the 
shape  of  the  leaf  of  an  elm,  and  the  chances  are  ninety  to  one  that 
he  cannot  tell  you ;  and  yet  he  will  be  voluble  of  criticism  on  every 


JOHN    RUSKIN.  553 

painted  landscape  from  Dresden  to  Madrid,  and  pretend  to  tell  you 
whether  they  are  like  nature  or  not.  Ask  an  enthusiastic  chatterer 
in  the  Sistine  Chapel  how  many  ribs  he  has,  and  you  get  no  answer  ; 
but  it  is  odds  that  you  do  not  get  out  of  the  door  without  his  inform- 
ing you  that  he  considers  such  and  such  a  figure  badly  drawn  ! 

A  few  such  interrogations  as  these  might  indeed  convict,  if  not 
convince,  the  mass  of  spectators  of  incapability,  were  it  not  for  the 
universal  reply,  that  they  can  recognize  what  they  cannot  describe, 
and  feel  what  is  truthful,  though  they  do  not  know  what  is  truth. 
And  this  is,  to  a  certain  degree,  true  :  a  man  may  recognize  the 
portrait  of  his  friend,  though  he  cannot,  if  you  ask  him  apart,  tell 
you  the  shape  of  his  nose  or  the  height  of  his  forehead  ;  and  every 
one  could  tell  nature  herself  from  an  imitation  ;  why  not  then,  it 
will  be  asked,  what  is  like  her  from  what  is  not  ?  For  this  simple 
reason,  that  we  constantly  recognize  things  by  their  least  important 
attributes,  and  by  help  of  very  few  of  those  :  and  if  these  attributes 
exist  not  in  the  imitation,  though  there  may  be  thousands  of  others 
far  higher  and  more  valuable,  yet  if  those  be  wanting,  or  imperfectly 
rendered,  by  which  we  are  accustomed  to  recognize  the  object,  we 
deny  the  likeness  ;  while  if  these  be  given,  though  all  the  great 
and  valuable  and  important  attributes  may  be  wanting,  we  affirm 
the  likeness.  Recognition  is  no  proof  of  real  and  intrinsic  resem- 
blance. We  recognize  our  books  by  their  bindings,  though  the 
true  and  essential  characteristics  lie  inside.  A  man  is  known  to 
his  dog  by  the  smell  —  to  his  tailor  by  the  coat  —  to  his  friend  by 
the  smile  :  each  of  these  knows  him,  but  how  little,  or  how  much, 
depends  on  the  dignity  of  the  intelligence.  That  which  is  truly  and 
indeed  characteristic  of  the  man,  is  known  only  to  God.  One  por- 
trait of  a  man  may  possess  exact  accuracy  of  feature,  and  no  atom 
of  expression  ;  it  may  be,  to  use  the  ordinary  terms  of  admiration 
bestowed  on  such  portraits  by  those  whom  they  please,  "  as  like  as 
it  can  stare."  Everybody,  down  to  his  cat,  would  know  this.  An- 
other portrait  may  have  neglected  or  misrepresented  the  features, 
but  may  have  given  the  flash  of  the  eye,  and  the  peculiar  radiance 
of  the  lip,  seen  on  him  only  in  his  hours  of  highest  mental  excite- 
ment. None  but  his  friends  would  know  this.  Another  may  have 
given  none  of  his  ordinary  expressions,  but  one  which  he  wore  in 
the  most  excited  instant  of  his  life,  when  all  his  secret  passions  and 
all  his  highest  powers  were  brought  into  play  at  once.  None  but 
those  who  had  then  seen  him  might  recognize  this  as  like.  But 
which  would  be  the  most  truthful  portrait  of  the  7?ian  ?     The  first 


564  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

gives  the  accidents  of  body  —  the  sport  of  chmate,  and  food,  and 
time  —  which  corruption  inhabits,  and  the  worm  waits  for.  The 
second  gives  the  stamp  of  the  soul  upon  the  flesh  ;  but  it  is  the  soul 
seen  in  the  emotions  which  it  shares  with  many  —  which  may  not 
be  characteristic  of  its  essence  —  the  results  of  habit,  and  education, 
and  accident  —  a  gloze,  whether  purposely  worn  or  unconsciously 
assumed,  perhaps  totally  contrary  to  all  that  is  rooted  and  real  in 
the  mind  that  it  conceals.  The  third  has  caught  the  trace  of  all 
that  was  most  hidden  and  most  mighty,  when  all  hypocrisy,  and  all 
habit,  and  all  petty  and  passing  emotion  —  the  ice,  and  the  bank, 
and  the  foam  of  the  immortal  river  —  were  shivered,  and  broken, 
and  swallowed  up  in  the  awakening  of  its  inward  strength  ;  when 
the  call  and  claim  of  some  divine  motive  had  brought  into  visible 
being  those  latent  forces  and  feelings  which  the  spirit's  own  volition 
could  not  summon,  nor  its  consciousness  comprehend  ;  which  God 
only  knew,  and  God  only  could  awaken,  the  depth  and  the  mystery 
of  its  peculiar  and  separating  attributes.  And  so  it  is  with  external 
Nature  :  she  has  a  body  and  a  soul  like  man  ;  but  her  soul  is  the 
Deity.  It  is  possible  to  represent  the  body  without  the  spirit ;  and 
this  shall  be  like  to  those  whose  senses  are  only  cognizant  of  body. 
It  is  possible  to  represent  the  spirit  in  its  ordinary  and  inferior 
manifestations  ;  and  this  shall  be  like  to  those  who  have  not  watched 
for  its  moments  of  power.  It  is  possible  to  represent  the  spirit  in 
its  secret  and  high  operations  ;  and  this  shall  be  like  only  to  those 
to  whose  watching  they  have  been  revealed.  All  these  are  truth  ; 
but  according  to  the  dignity  of  the  truths  he  can  represent  or  feel, 
is  the  power  of  the  painter,  —  the  justice  of  the  judge. 


AN   ITALIAN  LANDSCAPE. 

Not  long  ago,  I  was  slowly  descending  this  very  bit  of  carriage 
road,  the  first  turn  after  you  leave  Albano,  not  a  httle  impeded  by 
the  worthy  successors  of  the  ancient  prototypes  of  Viento.  It  had 
been  wild  weather  when  I  left  Rome,  and  all  across  the  Campagna 
the  clouds  were  sweeping  in  sulphurous  blue,  with  a  clap  of  thunder 
or  two,  and  breaking  gleams  of  sun  along  the  Claudian  aqueduct, 
lighting  up  the  infinity  of  its  arches  hke  the  bridge  of  chaos.  But 
as  I  cHmbed  the  long  slope  of  the  Alban  mount,  the  storm  swept 
finally  to  the  north,  and  the  noble  outhne  of  the  domes  of  Albano 
and  graceful  darkness  of  its  ilex  grove  rose  against  pure  streaks  of 
alternate  blue  and  amber,  the  upper  sky  gradually  flushing  through 


JOHN   RUSKIN.  565 

the  last  fragments  of  rain-cloud  in  deep,  palpitating  azure,  half  ether 
and  half  dew.  The  noonday  sun  came  slanting  down  the  rocky 
slopes  of  La  Riccia,  and  its  masses  of  entangled  and  tall  foliage, 
whose  autumnal  tints  Were  mixed  with  the  wet  verdure  of  a  thou- 
sand evergreens,  were  penetrated  with  it  as  with  rain.  I  cannot  call 
it  color,  it  was  conflagration.  Purple,  and  crimson,  and  scarlet,  like 
the  curtains  of  God's  tabernacle,  the  rejoicing  trees  sank  into  the 
valley  in  showers  of  light,  every  separate  leaf  quivering  with  buoy- 
ant and  burning  life  ;  each,  as  it  turned  to  reflect  or  to  transmit 
the  sunbeam,  first  a  torch  and  then  an  emerald.  Far  up  into  the 
recesses  of  the  valley,  the  green  vistas  arched  like  the  hollows  of 
mighty  waves  of  some  crystalline  sea,  with  the  arbutus  flowers 
dashed  along  their  flanks  for  foam,  and  silver  flakes  of  orange  spray 
tossed  into  the  air  around  them,  breaking  over  the  gray  walls  of 
rock  into  a  thousand  separate  stars,  fading  and  kindling  alternately 
as  the  weak  wind  lifted  and  let  them  fall.  Every  glade  of  grass 
burned  like  the  golden  floor  of  heaven,  opening  in  sudden  gleams 
as  the  foliage  broke  and  closed  above  it,  as  sheet-lightning  opens 
in  a  cloud  at  sunset ;  the  motionless  masses  of  dark  rock  —  dark 
though  flushed  with  scarlet  lichen,  —  casting  their  quiet  shadows 
across  its  restless  radiance,  the  fountain  underneath  them  filling  its 
marble  hollow  with  blue  mist  and  fitful  sound,  and  over  all  —  the 
multitudinous  bars  of  amber  and  rose,  the  sacred  clouds  that  have 
no  darkness,  and  only  exist  to  illumine,  were  seen  in  fathomless  in- 
tervals between  the  solemn  and  orbed  repose  of  the  stone  pines, 
passing  to  lose  themselves  in  the  last,  white,  Winding  lustre  of  the 
measureless  line  where  the  Campagna  melted  into  the  blaze  of 
the  sea. 

MOUNTAIN   SCENERY  ;    CLOUDS   AND   MISTS   AT   SUNRISE  ;    SUPE' 
RIORITY   OF   TURNER   OVER   CLAUDE. 

Stand  upon  the  peak  of  some  isolated  mountain  at  daybreak, 
when  the  night  mists  first  rise  from  off  the  plains,  and  watch  theii 
white  and  lake-like  fields  as  they  float  in  level  bays  and  winding  gulfs 
about  the  islanded  summits  of  the  lower  hills,  untouched  yet  by 
more  than  dawn,  colder  and  more  quiet  than  a  windless  sea  under 
the  moon  of  midnight ;  watch  when  the  first  sunbeam  is  sent  upon 
the  silver  channels,  how  the  foam  of  their  undulating  surface  parts 
and  passes  away  ;  and  down  under  their  depths,  the  glittering  city 
and  green  pasture  lie  like  Atlantis,  between  the  white  paths  of  wind- 
ing rivers;    the  flakes  of  light   falling  every  moment  faster  and 


566  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

broader  among  the  starry  spires,  as  the  wreathed  surges  break  and 
vanish  above  them,  and  the  confused  crests  and  ridges  of  the  dark 
hills  shorten  their  gray  shadows  upon  the  plain.  Has  Claude  given 
this  ?  Wait  a  little  longer,  and  you  shall  see  those  scattered  mists 
rallying  in  the  ravines,  and  floating  up  towards  you,  along  the  wind- 
ing valleys,  till  they  couch  in  quiet  masses,  iridescent  with  the 
morning  light,  upon  the  broad  breasts  of  the  higher  hills,  whose 
leagues  of  massy  undulation  will  melt  back  and  back  into  that  robe 
of  material  light,  until  they  fade  away,  lost  in  its  lustre,  to  appear 
again  above,  in  the  serene  heaven,  like  a  wild,  bright,  impossible 
dream,  foundationless  and  inaccessible,  their  very  bases  vanishing 
in  the  unsubstantial  and  mocking  blue  of  the  deep  lake  below.  Has 
Claude  given  this  ?  Wait  yet  a  little  longer,  and  you  shall  see  those 
mists  gather  themselves  into  white  towers,  and  stand  like  fortresses 
along  the  promontories,  massy  and  motionless,  only  piled  with  every 
instant  higher  and  higher  into  the  sky,  and  casting  longer  shadows 
athwart  the  rocks  ;  and  out  of  the  pale  blue  of  the  horizon  you  will 
see  forming  and  advancing  a  troop  of  narrow,  dark,  pointed  vapors, 
which  will  cover  the  sky,  inch  by  inch,  with  their  gray  network,  and 
take  the  light  off  the  landscape  with  an  eclipse  which  will  stop  the 
singing  of  the  birds  and  the  motion  of  the  leaves  together  ;  and 
then  you  will  see  horizontal  bars  of  black  shadow  forming  under 
them,  and  lurid  wreaths  create  themselves,  you  know  not  how,  along 
the  shoulders  of  the  hills  ;  you  never  see  them  form,  but  when  you 
look  back  to  a  place  which  was  clear  an  instant  ago,  there  is  a  cloud 
on  it,  hanging  by  the  precipices,  as  a  hawk  pauses  over  his  prey. 
Has  Claude  given  this  ?  And  then  you  will  hear  the  sudden  rush 
of  the  awakened  wind,  and  you  will  see  those  watch-towers  of  vapor 
swept  away  from  their  foundations,  and  waving  curtains  of  opaque 
rain  let  down  to  the  valleys,  swinging  from  the  burdened  clouds  in 
black,  bending  fringes,  or  pacing  in  pale  columns  along  the  lake 
level,  grazing  its  surface  into  foam  as  they  go.  And  then,  as  the 
sun  sinks,  you  shall  see  the  storm  drift  for  an  instant  from  off  the 
hills,  leaving  their  broad  sides  smoking,  and  loaded  yet  with  snow- 
white,  torn,  steam-like  rags  of  capricious  vapor,  now  gone,  now  gath- 
ered again  ;  while  the  smouldering  sun,  seeming  not  far  away,  but 
burning  like  a  red-hot  ball  beside  you,  and  as  if  you  could  reach  it, 
plunges  through  the  rushing  wind  and  rolling  cloud  with  headlong 
fall,  as  if  it  meant  to  rise  no  more,  dyeing  all  the  air  about  it  with 
blood.  Has  Claude  given  this  ?  And  then  you  shall  hear  the  faint- 
ing tempest  die  in  the  hollow  of  the  night,,  and  you  shall  see,  a  green 
halo  kindling  on  the  summit  of  the  eastern  hills,  brighter—  brighter 


JOHN   TYNDALL.  567 

yet,  till  the  large  white  circle  of  the  slow  moon  is  lifted  up  among 
the  barred  clouds,  step  by  step,  hne  by  hne  ;  star  after  star  she 
quenches  with  her  kindling  light,  setting  in  their  stead  an  army  o£ 
pale,  penetrable,  fleecy  wreaths  in  the  heaven,  to  give  light  upon  the 
earth,  which  move  together,  hand  in  hand,  company  by  company, 
troop  by  troop,  so  measured  in  their  unity  of  motion,  that  the  whole 
heaven  seems  to  roll  with  them,  and  the  earth  to  reel  under  them. 
Ask  Claude,  or  his  brethren,  for  that.  And  then  wait  yet  for  one 
hour,  until  the  east  again  becomes  purple,  and  the  heaving  moun- 
tains, rolling  against  it  in  darkness,  like  waves  of  a  wild  sea,  are 
drowned  one  by  one  in  the  glory  of  its  burning :  watch  the  white 
glaciers  blaze  in  their  winding  paths  about  the  mountains,  like  mighty 
serpents  with  scales  of  fire  ;  watch  the  columnar  peaks  of  solitary 
snow,  kindling  downwards,  chasm  by  chasm,  each  in  itself  a  new 
morning  ;  their  long  avalanches  cast  down  in  keen  streams  brighter 
than  the  lightning,  sending  each  his  tribute  of  driven  snow,  like 
altar-smoke,  up  to  the  heaven ;  the  rose-hght  of  their  silent  domes 
flushing  that  heaven  about  them  and  above  them,  piercing  with  purer 
light  through  its  purple  lines  of  lifted  cloud,  casting  a  new  glory  on 
every  wreath  as  it  passes  by,  until  the  whole  heaven  —  one  scarlet 
canopy  —  is  interwoven  with  a  roof  of  waving  flame,  and  tossing, 
vault  beyond  vault,  as  with  the  drifted  wings  of  many  companies  of 
angels  ;  and  then,  when  you  can  look  no  more  for  gladness,  and 
when  you  are  bowed  down  with  fear  and  love  of  the  Maker  and 
Doer  of  this,  tell  me  who  has  best  delivered  this  His  message  unto 
men  ! 


JOHN   TYNDALL. 

John  Tyndall  was  born  in  the  village  of  LeighHn  Bridge,  Ireland,  in  1820.  He  received 
only  a  common  school  education.  He  was  first  emp'oyed  as  an  assistant  in  the  Ordnance 
Survey,  and  quickly  mastered  both  the  mathematical  and  practical  parts  of  the  business. 
At  the  suggestion  of  a  friend  to  devote  his  leisure  to  study,  he  commenced  the  next  day  at 
five  o'clock  in  ihe  morning,  and  continued  in  this  practice  for  twelve  years.  He  was  next 
employed  as  Civil  Engineer  in  constructing  a  railroad.  He  became  known  to  the  scientific 
world  by  the  pubHcation  of  his  discoveries,  On  the  Magneto-optic  Properties  of  Crystals, 
and  the  Relation  of  Magnetism  and  Diamagnetism  to  Molecular  Arrangement.  He  stud- 
ied for  some  years  in  Germany  with  eminent  physicists,  —  making  special  investigations  of 
Alpine  glaciers,  —  and  returned  in  1852  to  London,  when  he  was  elected  2.  Fellow  of  the 
Royal  Society,  and  in  1853  Professor  of  Natural  Philosophy  in  the  same  institution. 

His  fir^  work.  The  Glaciers  of  the  Alps,  was  published  in  i860.  The  next,  published 
in  1863,  is  entitled  Heat  as  a  Mode  of  Motion.  The  author,  though  an  independent  inves 
tigator,  has  incorporated  with  his  own  researches  the  recent  theories  of  Mayer,  Helmholz, 
and  others  lipon  the  Conservation  and  Correlation  of  Force,  and  takes  the  reader  into  an 
elevated  region  of  thought.  If  the  doctrines  are  true,  all  the  treatises  upon  physical  lawr 
called  in  school-books  "natural  philosophy,"  must  be  re-written. 


568  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

THE   INFLUENCES   OF   THE   SUN. 
«  [From  Heat  as  a  Mode  of  Motion.] 

As  surely  as  the  force  which  moves  a  clock's  hands  is  derived  from 
the  arm  which  winds  up  the  clock,  so  surely  is  all  terrestrial  power 
drawn  from  the  sun.  Leaving  out  of  account  the  eruptions  of  volca- 
noes, and  the  ebb  and  flow  of  the  tides,  every  mechanical  action  on  the 
earth's  surface,  every  manifestation  of  power,  organic  and  inorganic, 
vital  and  physical,  is  produced  by  the  sun.  His  warmth  keeps  the 
sea  liquid,  and  the  atmosphere  a  gas,  and  all  the  storms  which  agitate 
both  are  blown  by  the  mechanical  force  of  the  sun.  He  lifts  the 
rivers  and  the  glaciers  up  to  the  mountains  ;  and  thus  the  cataract 
and  the  avalanche  shoot  with  an  energy  derived  immediately  from 
him.  Thunder  and  lightning  are  also  his  transmitted  strength.  Ev- 
ery fire  that  burns  and  every  flame  that  glows  dispenses  light  and 
heat  which  originally  belonged  to  the  sun.  In  these  days,  unhap- 
pily, the  news  of  battle  is  familiar  to  us,  but  every  shock,  and  every 
charge,  is  an  application,  or  misapplication,  of  the  mechanical  force 
of  the  sun.  He  blows  the  trumpet,  he  urges  the  projectile,  he  bursts 
the  bomb.  And  remember,  this  is  not  poetry,  but  rigid  mechanical 
truth.  He  rears,  as  I  have  said,  the  whole  vegetable  world,  and 
through  it  the  animal ;  the  lilies  of  the  field  are  his  workmanship, 
the  verdure  of  the  meadows,  and  the  cattle  upon  a  thousand  hills. 
He  forms  the  muscle,  he  urges  the  blood,  he  builds  the  brain.  His 
fleetness  is  in  the  lion's  foot ;  he  springs  in  the  panther,  he  soars  in 
the  eagle,  he  slides  in  the  snake.  He  builds  the  forest  and  hews  it 
down,  the  power  which  raised  the  tree,  and  which  wields  the  axe, 
being  one  and  the  same.  The  clover  sprouts  and  blossoms,  and  the 
scythe  of  the  mower  swings,  by  the  operation  of  the  same  force. 
The  sun  digs  the  ore  from  our  mines,  he  rolls  the  iron  ;  he  rivets 
the  plates,  he  boils  the  water;  he  draws  the  train.  He  not  only 
grows  the  cotton,  but  he  spins  the  fibre  and  weaves  the  web.  There 
is  not  a  hammer  raised,  a  wheel  turned,  or  a  shuttle  thrown,  that 
is  not  raised,  and  turned,  and  thrown  by  the  sun.  His  energy  is 
poured  freely  into  space,  but  our  world  is  a  halting-place  where  this 
energy  is  conditioned.  Here  the  Proteus  works  his  spells  ;  the  self- 
same essence  takes  a  milhon  shapes  and  hues,  and  finally  dissolves 
into  its  primitive  and  almost  formless  form.  The  sun  comes  to  us 
as  heat ;  he  quits  us  as  heat ;  and  between  his  entrance  and  depart- 
ure the  multiform  powers  of  our  globe  appear.  They  are  all  special 
forms  of  solar  power  —  the  moulds  into  which  his  strength  is  tem- 
porarily poured,  in  passing  from  its  source  through  infinitude. 


JOHN   TYNDALL.  569 

Presented  rightly  to  the  mind,  the  discoveries  and  generalizations 
of  modern  science  constitute  a  poem  more  sublime  than  has  ever 
yet  been  addressed  to  the  intellect  and  imagination  of  man.  The 
natural  philosopher  of  to-day  may  dwell  amid  conceptions  which 
beggar  those  of  Milton.  So  great  and  grand  are  they,  that,  in  the 
contemplation  of  them,  a  certain  force  of  character  is  requisite  to 
preserve  us  from  bewilderment.  Look  at  the  integrated  energies 
of  our  world  —  the  stored  power  of  our  coal-fields  ;  our  winds  and 
rivers  ;  our  fleets,  armies,  and  guns.  What  are  they  ?  They  are 
all  generated  by  a  portion  of  the  sun's  energy,  which  does  not 
amount  to  an  infinitesimal  part  of  the  whole.  Multiplying  our 
powers  by  millions  of  millions,  we  do  not  reach  the  sun's  expendi- 
ture. And  still,  notwithstanding  this  enormous  drain,  in  the  lapse 
of  human  history  we  are  unable  to  detect  a  diminution  of  his  store. 
Measured  by  our  largest  terrestrial  standards,  such  a  reservoir  of 
power  is  infinite  ;  but  it  is  our  privilege  to  rise  above  these  stan- 
dards, and  to  regard  the  sun  himself  as  a  speck  in  infinite  extension, 
—  a  mere  drop  in  the  universal  sea.  We  analyze  the  space  in  which 
he  is  immersed,  and  which  is  the  vehicle  of  his  power.  We  pass  to 
other  systems  and  other  suns,  each  pouring  forth  energy  like  our 
own,  but  still  without  infringement  of  the  law,  which  reveals  immu- 
tability in  the  midst  of  change,  which  recognizes  incessant  transfer- 
ence and  conversion,  but  neither  final  gain  nor  loss.  This  law 
generaHzes  the  aphorism  of  Solomon,  that  there  is  nothing  new  un- 
der the  sun,  by  teaching  us  to  detect  everywhere,  under  its  infinite 
variety  of  appearances,  the  same  primeval  force.  To  nature  noth- 
ing can  be  added  ;  from  nature  nothing  can  be  taken  away  ;  the  sum 
of  her  energies  is  constant,  and  the  utmost  man  can  do  in  the  pur- 
suit of  physical  truth,  or  in  the  application  of  physical  knowledge, 
is  to  shift  the  constituents  of  the  never-varying  total,  and  out  of  one 
of  them  to  form  another.  The  law  of  conservation  rigidly  excludes 
both  creation  and  annihilation.  Waves  may  change  to  ripples,  and 
ripples  to  waves,  —  magnitude  maybe  substituted  for  number,  and 
number  for  magnitude,  —  asteroids  may  aggregate  to  suns,  suns  may 
resolve  themselves  into  florae  and  faunae,  and  florae  and  faunae  melt 
in  air,  —  the  flux  of  power  is  eternally  the  same.  It  rolls  in  music 
through  the  ages,  and  all  terrestrial  energy,  —  the  manifestations  of 
life,  as  well  as  the  display  of  phenomena,  are  but  the  modulations 
of  its  rhythm. 


570  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 


"GEORGE   ELIOT." 

"  George  Eliot "  is  the  assumed  name  of  Marian  C.  Evans,  bom  in  Derbyshire  about  the 
year  1820,  and  the  daughter  of  a  clergyman.  She  is  the  wife  of  George  H.  Lewes,  the  author  of 
the  Life  of  Goethe,  the  History  of  Philosophy,  and  other  able  works.  Her  novels  are  pro- 
foundly interesting,  full  of  finely  drawn  characters,  elegant  and  scholarly  in  style,  and  show- 
ing the  author  to  be  on  the  whole  the  most  powerful  and  most  cultivated  female  writer  of  the 
century.  The  titles  of  her  works  are,  Adam  Bede,  The  Mill  on  the  Floss,  Felix  Holt, 
Romola,  Scenes  of  Clerical  Life,  and  Si!as  Marner.  She  has  also  written  a  poem,  en- 
titled The  Spanish  Gypsy. 

THE   BLIND   SCHOLAR   AND   HIS   DAUGHTER. 
[From  Romola.] 

The  house  in  which  Bardo  lived  was  situated  on  the  side  of  the 
street  nearest  the  hill,  and  was  one  of  those  large  sombre  masses  of 
stone  building  pierced  by  comparatively  small  windows,  and  sur- 
mounted by  what  may  be  called  a  roofed  terrace,  or  loggia,  of  which 
there  are  many  examples  still  to  be  seen  in  the  venerable  city.  Grim 
doors,  with  conspicuous  scrolled  hinges,  having  high  up  on  each  side 
of  them  a  small  window  defended  by  iron  bars,  opened  on  a  groined 
entrance-court,  empty  of  everything  but  a  massive  lamp-iron  sus- 
pended from  the  centre  of  the  groin.  A  small  grim  door  on  the  left 
hand  admitted  to  the  stone  staircase  and  the  rooms  on  the  ground- 
floor. 

Maso,  the  old  serving  man,  who  returned  from  the  Mercato  with 
the  stock  of  cheap  vegetables,  had  to  make  his  slow  way  up  to  the 
second  story  before  he  reached  the  door  of  his  master,  Bardo,  through 
which  we  are  about  to  enter. 

We  follow  Maso  across  the  antechamber  to  the  door  on  the  left 
hand,  through  which  we  pass  as  he  opens  it.  He  merely  looks  in 
and  nods,  while  a  clear  young  voice  says,  "  Ah,  you  are  come  back, 
Maso.     It  is  well.     We  have  wanted  nothing." 

The  voice  came  from  the  farther  end  of  a  long,  spacious  room  sur- 
rounded with  shelves,  on  which  books  and  antiquities  were  arranged 
in  scrupulous  order.  Here  and  there,  on  separate  stands  in  front 
of  the  shelves,  were  placed  a  beautiful  feminine  torso  ;  a  headless 
statue,  with  an  upHfted  muscular  arm  wielding  a  bladeless  sword  ; 
rounded,  dimpled,  infantine  limbs  severed  from  the  trunk,  inviting 
the  hps  to  kiss  the  cold  marble  ;  some  well-preserved  Roman  busts  ; 
two  or  three  vases  of  Magna  Grajcia.     A  large  table  in  the  centre 


"GEORGE  ELIOT."  571 

was  covered  with  antique  bronze  lamps  and  small  vessels  in  dark 
pottery.  The  color  of  these  objects  was  chiefly  pale  or- sombre  ;  the 
vellum  bindings,  with  their  deep-ridged  backs,  gave  Httle  relief  to 
the  marble  livid  with  long  burial ;  the  once  splendid  patch  of  carpet 
at  the  farther  end  of  the  room  had  long  been  worn  to  dimness  ;  the  dark 
bronzes  wanted  sunlight  upon  them  to  bring  out  their  tinge  of  green, 
and  the  sun  was  not  yet  high  enough  to  send  gleams  of  brightness 
through  the  narrow  windows  that  looked  on  the  Via  de'  Bardi. 

The  only  spot  of  bright  color  in  the  room  was  made  by  the  hair 
of  a  tall  maiden  of  seventeen  or  eighteen,  who  was  standing  before  a 
carved  leggio,  or  reading-desk,  such  as  is  often  seen  in  the  choirs  of 
Italian  churches.  The  hair  was  of  a  reddish  gold  color,  enriched  by 
an  unbroken  small  ripple,  such  as  may  be  seen  in  the  sunset  clouds 
on  grandest  autumnal  evenings.  It  was  confined  by  a  black  fillet 
above  her  small  ears,  from  which  it  rippled  forward  again,  and  made 
a  natural  veil  for  her  neck  above  her  square-cut  gown  of  black 
rascia,  or  serge.  Her  eyes  were  bent  on  a  large  volume  placed 
before  her  :  one  long  white  hand  rested  on  the  reading-desk,  and  the 
other  clasped  the  back  of  her  father's  chair. 

The  blind  father  sat  with  head  uplifted  and  turned  a  little  aside 
towards  his  daughter,  as  if  he  were  looking  at  her.  His  delicate 
paleness,  set  off  by  the  black  velvet  cap  which  surmounted  his  droop- 
ing white  hair,  made  all  the  more  perceptible  the  hkeness  between 
his  aged  features  and  those  of  the  young  maiden,  whose  cheeks  were 
also  without  any  tinge  of  the  rose.  There  was  the  same  refinement 
of  brow  and  nostril  in  both,  counterbalanced  by  a  full,  though  firm 
mouth  and  powerful  chin,  which  gave  an  expression  of  proud  tena- 
city and  latent  impetuousness :  an  expression  carried  out  in  the 
backward  poise  of  the  girl's  head,  and  the  grand  line  of  her  neck  and 
shoulders.  It  was  a  type  of  face  of  which  one  could  not  venture  to 
say  whether  it  would  inspire  love  or  only  that  unwilling  admiration 
which  is  mixed  with  dread  ;  the  question  must  be  decided  by  the 
eyes,  which  often  seem  charged  with  a  more  direct  message  from  the 
soul.  But  the  eyes  of  the  father  had  long  been  silent,  and  the  eyes 
of  the  daughter  were  bent  on  the  Latin  pages  of  PoHtian's  Miscel- 
lanea, from  which  she  was  reading  aloud. 

Bardo  shook  his  head  again..  "  It  is  not  mere  bodily  organs  that 
I  want  :  it  is  the  sharp  edge  of  a  young  mind  to  pierce  the  way  for 
my  somewhat  blunted  faculties.  For  blindness  acts  like  a  dam, 
sending  the  streams  of  thought  backward  along  the  already-travelled 


572  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

channels  and  hindering  the  course  onward.  If  my  son  had  not  for- 
saken me,  deluded  by  debasing  fanatical  dreams,  worthy  only  of  an 
energumen  whose  dwelling  is  among  tombs,  I  might  have  gone  on 
and  seen  my  path  broadening  to  the  end  of  my  life  ;  for  he  was  a 
youth  of  great  promise.  .  .  .  But  it  has  closed  in  now,"  the  old 
man  continued,  after  a  short  pause  ;  "  it  has  closed  in  now  —  all  but 
the  narrow  track  he  has  left  me  to  tread  —  alone,  in  my  blindness." 

"  Nay,  Romola  mia,  if  I  have  pronounced  an  anathema  on  a 
degenerate  and  ungrateful  son,  I  said  not  that  I  could  wish  thee  other 
than  the  sweet  daughter  thou  hast  been  to  me.  For  what  son  could 
have  tended  me  so  gently  in  the  frequent  sickness  I  have  had  of 
late  1  And  even  in  learning  thou  art  not,  according  to  thy  measure, 
contemptible.  Something  perhaps  were  to  be  wished  in  thy  capacity 
of  attention  and  memory,  not  incompatible  even  with  the  feminine 
mind.  But  as  Calcondila  bore  testimony  when  he  aided  me  to  teach 
thee,  thou  hast  a  ready  apprehension,  and  even  a  wide-glancing  intel- 
ligence. And  thou  hast  a  man's  nobility  of  soul  ;  thou  hast  never 
fretted  me  with  thy  petty  desires  as  thy  mother  did.  It  is  true,  I 
have  been  careful  to  keep  thee  aloof  from  the  debasing  influence  of 
thy  own  sex,  with  their  sparrow-like  frivolity  and  their  enslaving 
superstition,  except,  indeed,  from  that  of  our  cousin  Brigida,  who 
may  well  serve  as  a  scarecrow  and  a  warning.  And  though  —  since 
I  agree  with  the  divine  Petrarca,  when  he  declares,  quoting  the 
Aulularia  of  Plautus,  who  again  was  indebted  for  the  truth  to  the 
supreme  Greek  intellect,  '  Optimam  fceminam  nullam  esse,  alia  licet 
alia  pejor  sit '  —  I  cannot  boast  that  thou  art  entirely  lifted  out  t)f 
that  lower  category  to  which  Nature  assigned  thee,  nor  even  that  in 
erudition  thou  art  on  a  par  with  the  more  learned  women  of  this 
age  ;  thou  art  nevertheless  —  yes,  Romola  mia,"  said  the  old  man, 
his  pedantry  again  melting  into  tenderness,  "thou  art  my  sweet 
daughter,  and  thy  voice  is  as  the  lower  notes  of  the  flute,  '  sweet, 
firm,  clear,  pure,  cutting  the  air,  and  resting  in  the  ear,'  according  to 
the  choice  words  of  Quintilian  ;  and  Bernardo  tells  me  thou  art  fair, 
and  thy  hair  is  like  the  brightness  of  the  morning,  and  indeed  it 
seems  to  me  that  I  discern  some  radiance  from  thee.  Ah  !  I  know 
how  all  else  looks  in  this  room,  but  thy  form  I  only  guess  at.  Thou 
art  no  longer  the  little  woman  six  years  old,  that  faded  for  me  into 
darkness  :  thou  art  tall,  and  thy  arm  is  but  little  below  mine.  Let  us 
walk  together." 


D'ARCY    WENTWORTH   THOMPSON.  5/3 

The  old  man's  voice  had  become  at  once  loud  and  tremulous,  and 
a  pink  flush  overspread  his  proud,  delicately-cut  features,  while  the 
habitually  raised  attitude  of  his  head  gave  the  idea  that  behind  the 
curtain  of  his  blindness  he  saw  some  imaginary  high  tribunal  to 
which  he  was  appealing  against  the  injustice  of  Fame. 


D'ARCY  WENTWORTH   THOMPSON. 

D'Arcy  Wentworth  Thompson  is  Professor  of  Greek  in  Queen's  College,  Galway,  and 
was  formerly  Classical  Master  in  the  Edinburgh  Academy.  He  has  written  a  number  of 
works,  most  of  them  relating  to  the  ancient  languages  and  their  literature :  Latin  Gram- 
mar for  elemsntary  classes,  1859  ;  Ancient  Leaves,  or  Metrical  Rendering  of  Poets 
(Greek  and  Roman),  1862;  Nursery  Rhymes,  1863;  Fun  and  Earnest,  1864;  Day 
Dreams  of  a  Schoolmaster,  1864 ;  Wayside  Thoughts,  1865  ;  ScoZcb  Novcs,  a  Ladder  to 
Latm,  i865;  Sales  Attict,  1867. 

THE   CLASSIC   LANGUAGES   NOT   DEAD. 
[From  Day  Dreams  of  a  Schoolmaster.] 

A  DEAD  language :  what  a  sad  and  solemn  expression  !  Trite 
enough,  I  own  ;  but,  to  a  reflective  mind,  none  the  less  sad  and  sol- 
emn ;  for  in  the  death  of  which  it  speaks  are  involved  deaths  un- 
told, innumerable. 

I  can  understand  what  is  meant  by  "  a  Dead  Sea  ;  "  and  should 
suppose  it  to  be  a  sheet  of  water  cut  ofl"  from  all  intercourse  with 
the  main  ocean  ;  never  rising  with  its  flow  ;  never  sinking  with  its 
ebb ;  never  skimmed  by  the  sail  of  commerce  ;  never  flapped  by 
wing  of  wandering  bird ;  undisturbed  by  the  bustle  of  the  restless 
world ;  but  slumbering  in  a  desolate  wilderness,  far  from  the  track 
of  caravan,  or  railway,  or  steamship,  in  a  stagnant,  and  tide-forgot- 
ten, and  unheeded  repose. 

The  chance-directed  efforts  of  an  enterprising  traveller  exhumed, 
but  recently,  the  sculptured  monuments  of  a  dead  civilization.  We 
then  learned  that  Nineveh  and  Babylon  were  not  only  the  homes  of 
conquering  kings,  but  the  seats  of  tranquil  learning  and  treasured 
science,  before  ever  a  fleet  had  sailed  from  Aulis,  or  the  eagles  had 
promised  empire  to  the  watcher  on  the  green  Palatine. 

The  language  of  priestly  and  kingly  Etruria  is  revealed  to  us  only 
by  dim  marks  upon  vase  or  tablet,  or  by  melancholy  inscriptions 
on  sepulchral  stones.  That  is,  indeed,  a  language  unquestionably 
dead. 


574  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH    LITERATURE. 

But  can  such  a  term  be  applied  to  that  Hellenic  speech  that  in  the 
Iliad  has  rolled,  like  the  great  Father  of  Waters,  its  course  unhin- 
dered down  three  thousand  years  ;  that  in  Pindar  still  soars  heaven- 
wards, staring  at  the  sun  ;  that  rises  and  falls  in  Plato  with  the  long, 
sequacious  music  of  an  i^olian  lute  ;  that  moves,  stately  and  black- 
stoled,  in  ^schylus  ;  that  reverberates  with  laughter  half  Olympian 
in  Aristophanes  ;  that  pierces  with  a  trumpet-sound  in  Demosthe- 
nes ;  that  smells  of  crocuses  in  Theocritus  ;  that  chirrups  like  a 
balm-cricket  in  Anacreon  ?  If  it  be  dead,  then  what  language  is 
alive  ? 

Or  again,  is  that  old  Itahan  speech  dead  and  gone,  that  murmurs 
in  Lucretius  a  ceaseless,  solemn  monotone  of  sea-shell  sound  ;  that 
in  Virgil  flows,  hke  the  Eridanus,  calmly  but  majestically  through 
rich  lowlands,  fringed  with  tall  poplars  and  rimmed  with  grassy 
banks  ;  that  quivers  to  wild  strings  of  passion  in  Catullus ;  that 
wimples  like  a  beck  in  Ovid ;  that  coos  in  Tibullus  like  the  turtle  ; 
that  sparkles  in  Horace  like  a  well-cut  diamond  ? 

No,  no  !  The  music  of  Homer  will  die  with  the  choral  chants  of 
the  Messiah,  and  the  strains  of  Pindar  with  the  symphonies  of 
Beethoven  ;  una  dies  dabit  exitio '  Aristophanes  and  Cervantes  and 
Moliere  ;  the  Mantuan  will  go  hand  in  hand  to  oblivion  with  the 
Florentine,  diviiius  Af agister  ciun  Discipulo  diviniore ;  ^  the  Meta- 
morphoses of  Ovid  will  decay  with  the  fantastic  tale  of  Ariosto  and 
the  music  of  Don  Giovanni ;  Horace  will  fade  out  of  ken  linked  arm 
in  arm  with  that  sweet  fellow-epicure,  Montaigne  ;  Antigone  will  be 
forgotten  maybe  a  short  century  before  Cordelia ;  and  Plato  and 
Aristotle  will  be  entombed  beneath  the  mausoleum  that  covers  for- 
ever the  thoughts  of  Bacon,  Kepler,  Newton,  and  Laplace. 

1  The  same  day  will  consign  to  oblivion  Aristophanes,  &c 

2  The  divine  Master  with  his  diviner  Disciple. 


THOMAS   HUGHES.  575 


THOMAS    HUGHES. 

Thomas  Hughes  was  bom  in  1823  near  Newbury.  He  was  educated  at  Rugby,  under  the 
celebrated  Dr.  Arnold,  and  at  Oxford.  He  read  law  at  Lincoln's  Inn,  and  was  called  to  the 
bar  in  1848.  He  published  School  Days  at  Rugby  in  1856,  and  the  sequel,  Tom  Brown  at 
Oxford,  in  1861.  He  was  chosen  a  member  of  Parliament  in  r665,  and  is  still  in  public 
service.  He  is  universally  esteemed  for  the  nobleness  of  his  nature,  for  his  robust  intellect, 
and  his  liberal  culture.  His  own  manly  traits  are  fully  evident  in  the  tone  of  his  delightful 
books.     No  student  will  need  any  formal  introduction  to  Tom  Brown. 

TOM   BROWN   AT   THE   MASTER'S   TOMB. 
[From  School  Days  at  Rugby.] 

He  was  lying  on  the  very  spot  where  the  fights  came  off;  where 
he  himself  had  fought  six  years  ago  his  first  and  last  battle.  He 
conjured  up  the  scene  till  he  could  almost  hear  the  shouts  of  the 
ring,  and  East's  whisper  in  his  ear  ;  and  looking  across  the  close  to 
the  Doctor's  private  door,  half  expected  to  see  it  open,  and  the  tail 
figure  in  cap  and  gown  come  striding  under  the  elm  trees  towards  him. 

No,  no  !  that  sight  could  never  be  seen  again.  There  was  no  flag 
flying  on  the  round  tower  ;  the  school-house  windows  were  all  shut- 
tered up  ;  and  when  the  flag  went  up  again,  and  the  shutters  came 
down,  it  would  be  to  welcome  a  stranger.  All  that  was  left  on  earth 
of  him  whom  he  had  honored,  was  lying  cold  and  still  under  the 
chapel  floor.  He  would  go  in  and  see  the  place  once  more,  and  then 
leave  it  once  for  all.  New  men  and  new  methods  might  do  for  other 
people ;  let  those  who  would  worship  the  rising  star,  he  at  least 
would  be  faithful  to  the  sun  which  had  set.  And  so  he  got  up,  and 
walke^d  to  the  chapel  door  and  unlocked  it,  fancying  himself  the  only 
mourner  in  all  the  broad  land,  and  feeding  on  his  own  selfish  sorrow. 

He  passed  through  the  vestibule,  and  then  paused  for  a  moment 
to  glance  over  the  empty  benches.  His  heart  was  still  proud  and 
high,  and  he  walked  up  to  the  seat  which  he  had  last  occupied  as  a 
sixth-form  boy,  and  sat  himself  down  there  to  collect  his  thoughts. 

And,  truth  to  tell,  they  needed  collecting  and  setting  in  order  not 
a  little.  The  memories  of  eight  years  were  all  dancing  through  his 
brain,  and  carrying  him  about  whither  they  would  ;  while  beneath 
them  all,  his  heart  was  throbbing  with  the  dull  sense  of  a  loss  that 
could  never  be  made  up  to  him.  The  rays  of  the  evening  sun  came 
solemnly  through  the  painted  windows  above  his  head  and  fell  in 
gorgeous    colors   on   the   opposite  wall,   and   the   perfect   stillness 


57^  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

soothed  his  spirit  by  little  and  little.  And  he  turned  to  the  pulpit, 
and  looked  at  it,  and  then  leaning  forward,  with  his  head  on  his 
hands,  groaned  aloud  —  "  If  he  could  only  have  seen  the  Doctor  again 
for  one  five  minutes,  to  have  told  him  all  that  was  in  his  heart,  what 
he  owed  to  him,  how  he  loved  and  reverenced  him,  and  would,  by 
God's  help,  follow  his  steps  in  life  and  death,  he  could  have  borne 
it  all  without  a  murmur.  But  that  he  should  have  gone  away  forever 
without  knowing  it  all,  was  too  much  to  bear."  "  But  am  I  sure  that 
he  does  not  know  it  all  ?  "  —  the  thought  made  him  start  —  "  May 
he  not  even  now  be  near  me,  in  this  very  chapel .''  If  he  be,  am  I 
sorrowing  as  he  would  have  me  sorrow  —  as  I  shall  wish  to  have 
sorrowed  when  I  shall  meet  him  again  ? " 

He  raised  himself  up  and  looked  round  ;  and  after  a  minute  rose 
and  walked  humbly  down  to  the  lowest  bench,  and  sat  down  on  the 
very  seat  which  he  had  occupied  on  his  first  Sunday  at  Rugby.  And 
then  the  old  memories  rushed  back  again,  but  softened  and  sub- 
dued, and  soothing  him  as  he  let  himself  be  carried  away  by  them. 
And  he  looked  up  at  the  great  painted  window  above  the  altar,  and 
remembered  how,  when  a  little  boy,  he  used  to  try  not  to  look 
through  it  at  the  elm  trees  and  the  rooks,  before  the  painted  glass 
came  —  and  the  subscription  for  the  painted  glass,  and  the  letter  he 
wrote  home  for  money  to  give  to  it.  And  there,  down  below,  was 
the  name  of  the  boy  who  sat  on  his  right  hand  on  that  first  day, 
scratched  rudely  in  the  oak  panelling. 

And  then  came  the  thought  of  all  his  old  school-fellows  ;  and  form 
after  form  of  boys,  nobler,  and  braver,  and  purer  than  he,  rose  up 
and  seemed  to  rebuke  him.  Could  he  not  think  of  them,  and  what 
they  had  felt  and  were  feehng  ;  they  who  had  honored  and  loved 
from  the  first,  the  man  whom  he  had  taken  years  to  know  and  love  .'' 
Could  he  not  think  of  those  yet  dearer  to  him  who  was  gone,  who 
bore  his  name  and  shared  his  blood,  and  were  now  without  a 
husband  or  a  father  ?  Then  the  grief  which  he  began  to  share  with 
others  became  gentle  and  holy,  and  he  rose  up  once  more,  and 
walked  up  the  steps  to  the  altar  ;  and  while  the  tears  flowed  freely 
down  his  cheeks,  knelt  down  humbly  and  hopefully,  to  lay  down 
there  his  share  of  a  burden  which  had  proved  itself  too  heavy  for  him 
to  bear  in  his  own  strength. 

Here  let  us  leave  him  —  where  better  could  we  leave  him.,  than  at 
the  altar,  before  which  he  had  first  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  glory  of 
his  birthright,  and  felt  the  drawing  of  the  bond  which  links  all 
living  souls  together  in  one  brotherhood  —  at  the  grave  beneath  the 


DINAH   MARIA  MULOCK.  577 

altar  of  him  who  had  opened  his  eyes  to  see  that  glory,  and  softened 
his  heart  till  it  could  feel  that  bond  ? 

And  let  us  not  be  hard  with  him,  if  at  that  moment  his  soul  is 
fuller  of  the  tomb  and  him  who  lies  there,  than  of  the  altar  and  Him 
of  whom  it  speaks.  Such  stages  have  to  be  gone  through,  I  beheve, 
by  all  young  and  brave  souls,  who  must  win  their  way  through  hero- 
worship  to  the  worship  of  Him  who  is  the  King  and  Lord  of  heroes. 
For  it  is  only  through  our  mysterious  human  relationships,  through 
the  love,  and  tenderness,  and  purity  of  mothers,  and  sisters,  and 
wives,  —  through  the  strength,  and  courage,  and  wisdom  of  fathers, 
and  brothers,  and  teachers,  that  we  can  come  to  the  knowledge  of 
Him,  in  whom  alone  the  love,  and  the  tenderness,  and  the  purity, 
and  the  strength,  and  the  courage,  and  the  wisdom  of  all  these  dwell 
forever  and  ever  in  perfect  fullness. 


DINAH    MARIA   MULOCK. 

Dinah  Maria  Mulock  was  bom  at  Stoke-upon-Trent  in  1826.  Her  father  was  a  man  of 
considerable  literary  ability.  She  is  the  author  of  several  novels  of  more  than  ordinary 
merit ;  chief  among  them  is  John  Halifax,  Gentleman.  The  titles  of  the  others  are,  The 
Ogilvies,  Olive,  Agatha's  Husband,  The  Head  of  the  Family,  Alice  Learmont,  Nothing 
New.  She  has  written  several  children's  stories,  also  A  Woman's  Thoughts  about  Women, 
and  a  volume  of  poems.  Her  traits  as  a  writer  are  intensely  feminine  ;  the  scenes  and  char- 
acters she  describes  are  minutely,  faithfully  depicted,  but  in  a  diffuse  style.  Her  poems 
have  genuine  religious  feeling,  and  are  graceful  and  refined  in  expression. 

Miss  Mulock  was  married  in  1865  to  Mr.  George  L.  Craik. 

PHILIP    MY   KING. 

"  Who  bears  upon  his  baby  brow  the  round 
And  top  of  sovereignty." 

Look  at  me  with  thy  large  brown  eyes, 

Philip  my  king. 
Round  whom  the  enshadowing  purple  lies 
Of  babyhood's  royal  dignities  : 
Lay  on  my  neck  thy  tiny  hand 
With  love's  invisible  sceptre  laden  ; 
I  am  thine  Esther  to  command 
Till  thou  shalt  find  a  queen-handmaiden, 

Phihp  my  king. 

O  the  day  when  thou  goest  a  wooing, 
Philip  my  king ! 
37 


578  HAND-BOOK  OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

When  those  beautiful  lips  'gin  suing, 
And  some  gentle  heart's  bars  undoing 
Thou  dost  enter,  love-crowned,  and  there 
Sittest  love-glorified.     Rule  kindly. 
Tenderly,  over  thy  kingdom  fair, 
For  we  that  love,  ah  !  we  love  so  blindly, 
Philip  my  king. 

Up  from  thy  sweet  mouth,  —  up  to  thy  brow, 

Philip  my  king  ! 
The  spirit  that  there  lies  sleeping  now 
May  rise  like  a  giant  and  make  men  bow 
As  to  one  heaven-chosen  amongst  his  peers  : 
My  Saul,  than  thy  brethren  taller  and  fairer 
Let  me  behold  thee  in  future  years  ; 
Yet  thy  head  needeth  a  circlet  rarer, 

Philip  my  king. 

A  wreath  not  of  gold,  but  palm.     One  day, 

Philip  my  king. 
Thou  too  must  tread,  as  we  trod,  a  way 
Thorny,  and  cruel,  and  cold,  and  gray  : 
Rebels  within  thee  and  foes  without, 
Will  snatch  at  thy  crown.     But  march  on,  glorious, 
Martyr,  yet  monarch  :  till  angels  shout 
As  thou  sitt'st  at  the  feet  of  God  victorious, 

"  Philip  the  king  !  " 


A  stream's  singing. 

O,  HOW  beautiful  is  Morning  ! 
How  the  sunbeams  strike  the  daisies, 
And  the  kingcups  fill  the  meadow 
Like  a  golden-shielded  army 

Marching  to  the  uplands  fair  ! 
I  am  going  forth  to  battle, 
And  Hfe's  uplands  rise  before  me, 
And  my  golden  shield  is  ready. 
And  I  pause  a  moment,  twining 
My  heart's  paean  to  the  waters, 
As  with  cheerful  song  incessant 


DINAH    MARIA   MULOCK.  57v) 

Onward  runs  the  little  stream  ; 
Singing  ever,  onward  ever, 
Boldly  runs  the  merry  stream. 

O,  how  glorious  is  the  Noonday  ! 
With  the  cool  large  shadows  lying 
Underneath  the  giant  forest. 
The  far  hill-tops  towering  dimly 

O'er  the  conquered  plains  below  ; 
I  am  conquering —  I  shall  conquer 
In  life's  battle-field  impetuous  : 
And  I  lie  and  listen  dreamy 
To  a  double-voiced,  low  music,  — 
Tender  beach  trees  sheeny  shiver 
Mingled  with  the  diapason 

Of  the  stony,  deep,  joyful  stream, 
Like  a  man's  love  and  a  woman's  ; 
So  it  runs  —  the  happy  stream  ! 

O,  how  grandly  cometh  Even, 
Sitting  on  the  mountain  summit, 
Purple-vestured,  grave,  and  silent, 
Watching  o'er  the  dewy  valleys, 

Like  a  good  king  near  his  end  :  — 
I  have  labored,  I  have  governed  ; 
Now  I  feel  the  gathering  shadows 
Of  the  night  that  closes  all  things  : 
And  the  fair  earth  fades  before  me, 
And  the  stars  leap  out  in  heaven, 
While  into  the  infinite  darkness 

Solemn  runs  the  steadfast  stream  ; 
Onward,  onward,  ceaseless,  fearless, 

Singing  runs  the  eternal  stream. 


58:«  HAND-BOOK   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


WILLIAM    EDWARD    HARTPOLE   LECKY. 

William  Edward  Hartpole  Lecky  was  bora  in  Ireland  in  1828,  and  was  educated  at 
Trinity  College,  Dublin.  The  only  further  information  respecting  him  that  is  accessible  is 
contained  in  the  following  paragraph  in  Appleton's  Journal,  September  11,  1869. 

"  Mr.  Lecky  first  became  known  by  the  publication,  in  1865,  of  his  interesting  and  elaborate 
work  on  the  History  of  the  Rise  and  Influence  of  Rationahsm  in  Europe.  The  English 
public  were  slow  to  perceive  its  merits,  several  months  having  passed  away,  after  its  publica- 
tion, before  there  were  any  symptoms  of  its  being  appreciated.  It,  however,  received  an 
early  recognition  in  this  country,  was  promptly  republished,  and  immediately  accorded  the 
position  of  an  original  and  standard  historical  disquisition  upon  a  subject  never  before  so 
ably  developed.  Except  a  lecture  before  the  Royal  Institution,  on  the  Influence  of  the 
Imagination  in  History,  the  only  other  work  we  have  from  Mr.  Lecky  is  his  recently  pub- 
lished History  of  Morals.  Mr.  Lecky  is  a  gentleman  of  a  tall  and  commanding  figure,  with 
a  very  pleasant  and  youthful  expression.  He  is  understood  to  be  a  man  of  fortune,  of  recluse 
and  studious  habits,  an  Irishman,  unmatrimonial,  who  divides  his  time  chiefly  between  his 
well-stocked  Ubrary,  in  Albemarle  Street,  London,  and  travelling  on  the  Continent." 

SOME    OF    THE    DIFFERENCES    OF    SEX    AS    AFFECTING    MORAL 
CHARACTER. 

[From  History  of  E,uropean  Morals.] 

Morally,  the  general  superiority  of  women  over  men  is,  I  think, 
unquestionable.  If  we  take  the  somewhat  coarse  and  inadequate  cri- 
terion of  police  statistics,  we  find  that,  while  the  male  and  female  pop- 
ulations are  nearly  the  same  in  number,  the  crimes  committed  by  men 
are  usually  rather  more  than  five  times  as  numerous  as  those  com- 
mitted by  women  ;  and  although  it  may  be  justly  observed  that  men, 
as  the  stronger  sex,  and  the  sex  upon  whom  the  burden  of  support- 
ing the  family  is  thrown,  have  more  temptations  than  women,  it 
must  be  remembered,  on  the  other  hand,  that  extreme  poverty  which 
verges  upon  starvation  is  most  common  among  women,  whose 
means  of  liveHhood  are  most  restricted,  and  whose  earnings  are 
smallest  and  most  precarious.  Self-sacrifice  is  the  most  conspicu- 
ous element  of  a  virtuous  and  religious  character,  and  it  is  certainly 
far  less  common  among  men  than  among  women,  whose  whole  lives 
are  usually  spent  in  yielding  to  the  will  and  consulting  the  pleasures 
of  another. 

There  are  two  great  departments  of  virtue  :  the  impulsive,  or  that 
which  springs  spontaneously  from  the  emotions,  and  the  delibera- 
tive, or  that  which  is  performed  in  obedience  to  the  sense  of 
duty ;  and  in  both  of  these  I  imagine  women  are  superior  to 
men.     Their  sensibility  is  greater,  they  are  more  chaste  both  in 


WILLIAM   EDWARD   HARTPOLE   LECKY.  58 1 

thought  and  act,  more  tender  to  the  erring,  more  compassionate 
to  the  suffering,  more  affectionate  to  all  about  them.  On  the 
other  hand,  those  who  have  traced  the  course  of  the  wives  of  the 
poor,  and  of  many  who,  though  in  narrow  circumstances,  can  hardly 
be  called  poor,  will  probably  admit  that  in  no  other  class  do  we  so 
often  find  entire  lives  spent  in  daily  persistent  self-denial,  in  the 
patient  endurance  of  countless  trials,  in  the  ceaseless  and  deliberate 
sacrifice  of  their  own  enjoyments  to  the  well-being  or  the  prospects 
of  others.  In  active  courage  women  are  inferior  to  men.  In  the 
courage  of  endurance  they  are  commonly  their  superiors  ;  but  their 
passive  courage  is  not  so  much  fortitude  which  bears  and  defies,  as 
resignation  which  bears  and  bends.  In  the  ethics  of  intellect  they 
are  decidedly  inferior.  To  repeat  an  expression  I  have  already 
employed,  women  very  rarely  love  truth,  though  they  love  passion- 
ately what  they  call  "the  truth,"  or  opinions  they  have  received  from 
others,  and  hate  vehemently  those  who  differ  from  them.  They  are 
little  capable  of  impartiality  or  of  doubt  ;  their  thinking  is  chiefly  a 
mode  of  feeling  ;  though  very  generous  in  their  acts,  they  are  rarely 
generous  in  their  opinions,  and  their  leaning  is  naturally  to  the  side 
of  restriction.  They  persuade  rather  than  convince,  and  value  belief 
rather  as  a  source  of  consolation  than  as  a  faithful  expression  of  tht 
reality  of  things.  They  are  less  capable  than  men  of  perceiving 
qualifying  circumstances,  of  admitting  the  existence  of  elements  of 
good  in  systems  to  which  they  are  opposed,  of  distinguishing  the 
personal  character  of  an  opponent  from  the  opinions  he  maintains. 
Men  lean  most  to  justice,  and  women  to  mercy.  Men  are  most 
addicted  to  intemperance  and  brutality,  women  to  frivolity  and  jeal- 
ousy. Men  excel  in  energy,  self-reliance,  perseverance,  and  mag- 
nanimity ;  women  in  humility,  gentleness,  modesty,  and  endurance. 
The  realizing  imagination  which  causes  us  to  pity  and  to  love  is 
more  sensitive  in  women  than  in  men,  and  it  is  especially  more 
capable  of  dwelling  on  the  unseen.  Their  religious  or  devotional 
realizations  are  incontestably  more  vivid  ;  and  it  is  probable  that, 
while  a  father  is  most  moved  by  the  death  of  a  child  in  his  presence, 
a  mother  generally  feels  most  the  death  of  a  child  in  some  distant 
land.  But  though  more  intense,  the  sympathies  of  women  are  com- 
monly less  wide  than  those  of  men.  Their  imaginations  individualize 
more,  their  affections  are,  in  consequence,  concciitrated  rather  on 
leaders  than  on  causes  ;  and  if  they  care  for  a  great  cause,  it  is 
generally  because  it  is  represented  by  a  great  man,  or  connected 
with  some  one  whom  they  love.     In  politics,  their  enthusiasm  is 


582  HAND-BOOK  OF  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

more  naturally  loyalty  than  patriotism.  In  historj^,  they  are  even 
more  inclined  than  men  to  dwell  exclusively  upon  biographical  inci- 
dents or  characteristics  as  distinguished  from  the  march  of  general 
causes.  In  benevolence,  they  excel  in  charity,  which  alleviates 
individual  suffering,  rather  than  in  philanthropy,  which  deals  with 
large  masses,  and  is  more  frequently  employed  in  preventing  than  in 
allaying  calamity.  It  was  a  remark  of  Winckelmann,  that  "the 
supreme  beauty  of  Greek  art  is  rather  male  than  female  ;  "  and  the 
justice  of  this  remark  has  been  amply  corroborated  by  the  greater 
knowledge  we  have  of  late  years  attained  of  the  works  of  the  Phidian 
period,  in  which  art  achieved  its  highest  perfection,  and  in  which,  at 
the  same  time,  force  and  freedom,  and  masculine  grandeur,  were  its 
pre-eminent  characteristics.  A  similar  observation  may  be  made  of 
the  moral  ideal  of  which  ancient  art  was  simply  the  expression.  In 
antiquity  the  virtues  that  were  most  admired  were  almost  exclusively 
those  which  are  distinctively  masculine.  Courage,  self-assertion, 
magnanimity,  and,  above  all,  patriotism,  were  the  leading  features  of 
the  ideal  type  ;  and  chastity,  modesty,  and  charity,  the  gentler  and  the 
domestic  virtues,  which  are  especially  feminine,  were  greatly  under- 
valued. With  the  single  exception  of  conjugal  fidelity,  none  of  the 
virtues  that  were  very  highly  prized  were  virtues  distinctively  or  pre- 
eminently feminine.  With  this  exception,  nearly  all  the  illustrious 
women  of  antiquity  were  illustrious  chiefly  because  they  overcame 
the  natural  conditions  of  their  sex.  It  is  a  characteristic  fact  that 
the  favorite  female  ideal  of  the  artists  appears  to  have  been  the 
Amazon.  We  may  admire  the  Spartan  mother,  or  the  mother  of  the 
Gracchi,  repressing  every  sign  of  grief  when  their  children  were 
sacrificed  upon  the  altar  of  their  country,  we  may  wonder  at  the 
majestic  courage  of  a  Porcia,  or  an  Arria,  but  we  extol  them  chiefly 
because,  being  women,  they  emancipated  themselves  from  the  frailty 
of  their  sex,  and  displayed  an  heroic  fortitude  worthy  of  the  strong- 
est and  the  bravest  of  men.  We  may  bestow  an  equal  admiration 
upon  the  noble  devotion  and  charity  of  a  St.  Elizabeth  of  Hungary, 
or  of  a- Mrs.  Fry,  but  we  do  not  admire  them  because  they  displayed 
these  virtues,  ^although  they  were  women,  for  we  feel  that  their 
virtues  were  of  the  kind  which  the  female  nature  is  most  fitted  to 
produce.  The  change  from  the  heroic  to  the  saintly  ideal,  from  the 
ideal  of  Paganism  to  the  ideal  of  Christianity,  was  a  change  from  a 
type  which  was  essentially  male  to  one  which  was  essentially 
feminine.  Of  all  the  great  schools  of  philosophy  no  other  reflected 
so  faithfully  the  Roman  conception  of  moral  excellence  as  Stoicism, 


WILLIAM   EDWARD    HARTPOLE   LECKY.  583 

and  the  greatest  Roman  exponent  of  Stoicism  summed  up  its  char- 
acter in  a  single  sentence  when  he  pronounced  it  to  be  beyond  all 
other  sects  the  most  emphatically  masculine.  On  the  other  hand,  an 
ideal  type  in  which  meekness,  gentleness,  patience,  humility,  faith, 
and  love  are  the  most  prominent  features,  is  not  naturally  male,  but 
female.  A  reason  probably  deeper  than  the  historical  ones  which 
are  commonly  alleged,  why  sculpture  has  always  been  peculiarly 
Pagan  and  painting  peculiarly  Christian,  may  be  found  in  the  fact, 
that  sculpture  is  especially  suited  to  represent  male  beauty,  or  the 
beauty  of  strength,  and  painting  female  beauty,  or  the  beauty  of 
softness  ;  and  that  Pagan  sentiment  was  chiefly  a  glorification  of  the 
masculine  qualities  of  strength,  and  courage,  and  conscious  virtue, 
while  Christian  sentiment  is  chiefly  a  glorification  of  the  feminine 
qualities  of  gentleness,  humility,  and  love.  The  painters  whom  the 
religious  feeling  of  Christendom  has  recognized  as  the  most  faithful 
exponents  of  Christian  sentiment  have  always  been  those  who 
infused  a  large  measure  of  feminine  beauty  even  into  their  male 
characters  ;  and  we  never,  or  scarcely  ever,  find  that  the  same  artist 
has  been  conspicuously  successful  in  delineating  both  Christian  and 
Pagan  types.  Michael  Angelo,  whose  genius  loved  to  expatiate  on 
the  subHmity  of  strength  and  defiance,  failed  signally  in  his  rep- 
resentations of  the  Christian  ideal ;  and  Perugino  was  equally  un- 
successful when  he  sought  to  portray  the  features  of  the  heroes  of 
antiquity.  The  position  that  was  gradually  assigned  to  the  Virgin 
as  the  female  ideal  in  the  belief  and  the  devotion  of  Christendom, 
was  a  consecration  or  an  expression  of  the  new  value  that  was 
attached  to  the  feminine  virtues.  The  general  superiority  of  women 
to  men  in  the  strength  of  their  religious  emotions,  and  their  natural 
attraction  to  a  religion  which  made  personal  attachment  to 'its 
Founder  its  central  duty,  and  which  imparted  an  unprecedented 
dignity  and  aflforded  an  unprecedented  scope  to  their  characteristic 
virtues,  account  for  the  very  conspicuous  position  they  assumed  in 
the  great  work  of  the  conversion  of  the  Roman  Empire. 


584  HAND-BOOK  OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


JEAN   INGELOW. 

Jean  Ingelow,  daughter  of  William  Ingelow,  Esq.,  late  of  Ipswich,  SuflFolk,  was  born 
about  1830.  She  has  written  a  volume  of  short  stories  entitled  Tales  of  Orris,  published  in 
x86o  in  the  Round  of  Days  —  a  volume  of  poems  which  has  gone  through  several  editions 
both  in  England  and  America.  This  authoress  contributed  several  poems  to  an  exquisitely 
illustrated  collection  of  original  poetical  pieces  entitled  Home  Sights  and  Home  Scenes, 
published  in  1864.  Messrs.  Roberts  Brothers  have  issued  a  new  edition  of  her  poems, 
in  three  volumes,  1870.  The  touching  ballad  that  follows  gives  a  sufficient  proof  of  her 
poetic  power,  although  her  Songs  of  Seven  are  more  widely  known  and  admired. 

THE  HIGH  TIDE   ON   THE   COAST  OF  LINCOLNSHIRE  (157I). 

The  old  mayor  climbed  the  belfry  tower, 

The  ringers  rang  by  two,  by  three  ; 
"  Pull,  if  ye  never  pulled  before  ; 

Good  ringers,  pull  your  best,"  quoth  he. 
"  Play  uppe,  play  uppe,  O  Boston  bells  ! 
Ply  all  your  changes,  all  your  swells. 

Play  uppe  '  The  Brides  of  Enderby.'  " 

Men  say  it  was  a  stolen  tyde  — 

The  Lord  that  sent  it.  He  knows  all ; 
But  in  myne  ears  doth  still  abide 

The  message  that  the  bells  let  fall : 
And  there  was  nought  of  strange,  beside 
The  flights  of  mews  and  peewits  pied 

By  millions  crouched  on  the  old  sea-wall. 

I  sat  and  spun  within  the  doore, 
My  thread  brake  oft;  I  raised  m)me  eyes ; 

The  level  sun^  like  ruddy  ore. 
Lay  sinking  in  the  barren  skies  ; 

And  dark  against  day's  golden  death 

She  moved  where  Lindis  wandereth, 

My  Sonne's  faire  wife,  Elizabeth. 

"  Cusha !  Cusha  !  Cusha !  "  calling, 


Ere  the  early  dews  were  falling, 
Farre  away  I  heard  her  song. 
«  Cusha  !  Cusha  !  "  all  along ; 


JEAN   INGELOW.  5^5 

Where  the  reedy  Lindis  floweth, 

Floweth,  floweth, 
From  the  meads  where  melick  groweth 
Faintly  came  her  milking-song. 

"Cusha!  Cusha!  Cusha  !  "  calling, 
"  For  the  dews  will  soone  be  falling  ; 
Leave  your  meadow  grasses  mellow, 

Mellow,  mellow ; 
Quit  your  cowslips,  cowslips  yellow ; 

Come  uppe,  Whitefoot,  come  uppe,  Lightfoot, 
Quit  the  stalks  of  parsley  hollow. 

Hollow,  hollow ; 
Come  uppe,  Jetty,  rise  and  follow. 

From  the  clovers  hft  your  head ; 

Come  uppe,  Whitefoot,  come  uppe,  Lightfoot, 
Come  uppe,  Jetty,  rise  and  follow, 

Jetty,  to  the  milking-shed." 

If  it  be  long,  aye,  long  ago. 

When  I  beginne  to  think  howe  long, 
Againe  I  hear  the  Lindis  flow, 

Swift  as  an  arrowe,  sharpe  and  strong ; 
And  all  the  aire  it  seemeth  mee 
Bin  full  of  floating  bells  (sayth  shee). 
That  ring  the  tune  of  Enderby. 

AUe  fresh  the  level  pasture  lay. 

And  not  a  shadowe  mote  be  seene, 
Save  where  full  fyve  good  miles  away 

The  steeple  towered  from  out  the  greene : 
And,  lo  !  the  great  bell  farre  and  wide 
Was  heard  in  all  the  country  side 
That  Saturday  at  eventide. 

The  swannerds  where  their  sedges  are 

Moved  on  in  sunset's  golden  breath, 
The  shepherde  lads  I  heard  afarre, 

And  my  Sonne's  wife,  Ehzabeth  ; 
Till  floating  o'er  the  grassy  sea 
Came  downe  that  kyndly  message  free, 
The  "  Brides  of  Mavis  Enderby." 


586  HAND-BOOK   OF  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

Then  some  looked  uppe  into  the  sky, 
And 'all  along  where  Lindis  flows 

To  where  the  goodly  vessels  lie, 

And  where  the  lordly  steeple  shows. 

They  sayde,  "  And  why  should  this  thing  be, 

What  danger  lowers  by  land  or  sea  ? 

They  ring  the  tune  of  Enderby ! 

"  For  evil  news  from  Mabelthorpe, 
Of  pyrate  galleys  warping  down  ; 
For  shippes  ashore  beyond  the  scorpe, 

They  have  not  spared  to  wake  the  towne : 
But  while  the  west  bin  red  to  see, 
And  storms  be  none,  and  pyrates  flee. 
Why  ring  '  The  Brides  of  Enderby '  ?  » 

I  looked  without,  and,  lo  !  my  sonne 

Came  riding  downe  with  might  and  main : 
He  raised  a  shout  as  he  drew  on, 

Till  all  the  welkin  rang  again, 
"  Elizabeth  !  Elizabeth  !  " 
(A  sweeter  woman  ne'er  drew  breath 
Than  my  Sonne's  wife,  EHzabeth.) 

"  The  olde  sea-wall  (he  cried)  is  downe. 
The  rising  tide  comes  on  apace, 

And  boats  adrift  in  yonder  towne 
Go  sailing  uppe  the  market-place." 

He  shook  as  one  that  looks  on  death : 

"  God  save  you,  mother  !  "  straight  he  saith  ; 

"  Where  is  my  wife,  EHzabeth  ?  " 

"  Good  Sonne,  where  Lindis  winds  away 

With  her  two  bairns  I  marked  her  long ; 
And  ere  yon  bells  beganne  to  play 
Afar  I  heard  her  milking-song." 
He  looked  across  the  grassy  sea. 
To  right,  to  left,  "  Ho,  Enderby  !  " 
They  rang  "  The  Brides  of  Enderby !  '* 

With  that  he  cried  and  beat  his  breast ; 
For,  lo  !  along  the  river's  bed 


JEAN  INGELOW.  587 

A  mighty  eyo;re  reared  his  crest, 

And  uppe  the  Lindis  raging  sped. 
It  swept  with  thunderous  noises  loud ; 
Shaped  hke  a  curling  snow-white  cloud, 
Or  like  a  demon  in  a  shroud. 

And  rearing  Lindis  backward  pressed, 
Shook  all  her  trembling  bankes  amaine  ; 

Then  madly  at  the  eygre's  breast 

Flung  uppe  her  weltering  walls  again. 

Then  bankes  came  downe  with  ruin  and  rout  — 

Then  beaten  foam  flew  round  about  — 

Then  all  the  mighty  floods  were  out. 

So  farre,  so  fast  the  eygre  drave. 

The  heart  had  hardly  time  to  beat, 
Before  a  shallow,  seething  wave 

Sobbed  in  the  grasses  at  oure  feet : 
The  feet  had  hardly  time  to  flee 
Before  it  brake  against  the  knee, 
And  all  the  world  was  in  the  sea. 

Upon  the  roofe  we  sate  that  night. 

The  noise  of  bells  went  sweeping  by : 
I  marked  the  lofty  beacon-light 

Stream  from  the  church-tower,  red  and  high  — 
A  lurid  mark  and  dread  to  see  ; 
And  awsome  bells  they  were  to  mee. 
That  in  the  dark  rang  "  Enderby." 

They  rang  the  sailor  lads  to  guide 

From  roofe  to  roofe  who  fearless  rowed ; 

And  I  —  my  sonne  was  at  my  side, 
And  yet  the  ruddy  beacon  glowed  ; 

And  yet  he  moaned  beneath  his  breath, 

"  O,  come  in  life,  or  come  in  death  ! 

O  lost !  my  love,  Elizabeth  !  " 

And  didst  thou  visit  him  no  more  ? 

Thou  didst,  thou  didst,  my  daughter,  deare  ; 
The  waters  laid  thee  at  his  doore, 

Ere  yet  the  early  dawn  was  clear. 


588  HAND-BOOK  OF  ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

Thy  pretty  bairns  in  fast  embrace, 
The  lifted  sun  shone  on  thy  face, 
Downe  drifted  to  thy  dwelling-place. 

That  flow  strewed  wrecks  about  the  grass, 

That  ebbe  swept  out  the  flocks  to  sea ; 
A  fatal  ebbe  and  flow,  alas  ! 

To  manye  more  than  myne  and,me  ; 
But  each  will  mourn  his  own  (she  saith).' 
And  sweeter  woman  ne'er  drew  breath 
Than  my  Sonne's  wife,  Elizabeth. 

I  shall  never  hear  her  more 
By  the  reedy  Lindis  shore, 
"  Cusha,  Cusha,  Cusha  ! "  calling, 
Ere  the  early  dews  be  falling ; 
I  shall  never  hear  her  song, 
"  Cusha,  Cusha  !  "  all  along. 
Where  the  sunny  Lindis  floweth, 

Goeth,  floweth  : 
From  the  meads  where  melick  groweth, 
When  the  water,  winding  down, 
Onward  floweth  to  the  town. 

I  shall  never  see  her  more 
Where  the  reeds  and  rushes  quiver. 

Shiver,  quiver ; 
Stand  beside  the  sobbing  river. 
Sobbing,  throbbing,  in  its  falling. 
To  the  sandy,  lonesome  shore  ; 
I  shall  never  hear  her  calling, 
"  Leave  your  meadow  grasses  mellow, 

Mellow,  mellow ; 
Quit  your  cowslips,  cowslips  yellow  ; 
Come  uppe,  Whitefoot,  com^uppe,  Lightfoot ; 
Quit  your  pipes  of  parsley  hollow, 

Hollow,  hollow ; 
Come  uppe,  Lightfoot,  rise  and  follow ; 
Lightfoot,  Whitefoot, 
From  your  clovers  lift  the  head  ; 

Come  uppe.  Jetty,  follow,  follow. 
Jetty,  to  the  milking-shed." 


WILLIAM  MORRIS. 


WILLIAM    MORRIS. 


589 


William  Morris  was  bom  near  London  in  1835,  and  was  educated  at  Oxford.  He  has 
become  suddenly  and  universally  known  to  the  reading  world  by  h>s  poems.  The  L.fe  and 
Death  of  Jason  is  Greek  to  the  core,  and  takes  the  reader  back  to  Homenc  days  Ihe 
Lrthly  Paradise  is  a  collection  of  poems  strung  on  the  thread  of  a  story,  -  some  of  them 
fountd  on  classic  fables  or  traditions,  and  some  upon  the  wild  legends  o  the  Norse  tnbes^ 
Tie  author  is  an  admirer  and  student  of  Chaucer,  and  has  followed  well  h>s  S-at  mas  er 
in  L  difficult  art  of  fluent  narration  in  verse  ;  he  has  also  followed  h.m  m  the  habU  of  forcmg 

hymes  and  in  the  arbitrary  use  of  accent,  to  the  annoyance  of  the  reader.  H.s  last  work 
Z  three  stout  volumes ;  the  poet's  art  could  have  condensed  ,t  to  advantage  St  t 
must  be  admitted,  the  interest  seldom  flags,  the  verses  run  on  hke  the  weavmg  of  a  ghtter- 

r  tuff  in  a  loom-theflying  and  returning  shuttle  often  throwing  up  some  figure  of 
beluty,  with  only  enough  of  plain  surface  intervening  for  jud.aous  rehef.  The  poems  are 
Ireo^er  for  a  leisure  day,  for  the  mood  of  repose,  for  the  contented  and  uncnt.cal.  They 
ZLy  n  ger^eral  a  pervading  sense  of  the  beautiful,  an  admiration  for  the  heroic,  and 
mo!  of  alU  passionate  love  of  life  for  its  own  sake  -  a  clinging  to  mere  existence  as  the 
Te  prkeless  object  of  desire.  The  scenes  and  figures  have  an  air  of  reality,  yet  are  suffi- 
dentW  remote  Ld  of  ideal  proportions.  If,  in  addition  to  these  traits,  U  were  possible  to 
add  that  they  inspire  fortitude  and  faith,  and  teach  the  high  lessons  of  aspiration  and  duty, 
h  would  be  enough  to  place  the  author  among  the  immortals.     But  he  is  conteiit  with  pre- 

eSg  his  pictures  of  the  elder  days,  and  his  verses  give  no  sign  that  the  thinking  or  the 
conscience  of  our  own  time  has  ever  touched  him.     As  he  confesses  in  a  tone  of  delicious 

languor,  he  is  ..^^^^  .^^  ^.^^^^^  ^^  ^^  ^^p^^  ^^y  .. 

It  is  to  be  hoped  that  this  vein  of  pure  gold  is  not  exhausted,  and  that  after  due  rest  the 
polt  will  agi  delight  the  vast  multitude  of  readers  who  now  offer  their  homage  to  his 
genius.  ,     ^       ,•      , 

[Conclusion  of  The  Man  born  to  be  King. -From  The  Earthly  Paradise.] 

It  was  foretold  to  a  certain  King  that  an  infant,  bom  in  a  hut  in  xj«ch  the  King  was 
forcelto  spend  a  night,  would  succeed  him  on  the  throne.  His  only  f  1^;  .  f ^^ J^^^^^ 
newly-bom  daughter.  The  story  recounts  the  various  attempts  made  by  the  King  to  de 
strly  the  W,  and  so  bring  the  pTophecy  to  nought.  The  babe  was  first  put  in  a  box  and 
thrown  into  a  river,  but  was  rescued  and  kindly  reared  by  a  miller.  Afterwards,  when  the 
se  ^of  the  boy's  birth  was  discovered,  the  King  directed  a  retainer  to  decoy  him  away 
from  the  miller  Jnd  despatch  him  with  a  dagger.  But  the  boy  was  ^^^^^^^^^^'^^^ 
living  with  the  King's  dagger  in  his  wound,  and  was  cared  for  at  the  monastery.  After 
arSg  at  man's  estate  he  became  a  soldier  in  the  royal  retinue,  and  the  necessary  link  in 
h  Sory  was  accidentally  furnished  by  the  King's  dagger,  which  the  y^-^  '^^^'^^^^^^^^^^^^ 
In  the  mean  time  the  King  had  sent  his  daughter  to  a  distant  ^f'^;i2"^^ZZT  To 
intimation  that  she  might  expect  to  receive  a  visit  there  from  her  destmed  husband.  To 
Take  sure  of  the  desLction  of  his  now  formidable  foe,  the  King  sent  h.m  with  a  sea  ed 
"tte  to  he  seneschal  of  this  castle,  directing  the  instant  execution  of  the  messenger.  1  he 
youth  was  now  in  early  manhood,  handsome,  brave,  light-hearted,  ^-\-!^^^Z'Tt' oi^^. 
journey  to  the  distant  castle  and  his  subsequent  adventures  are  related  m  the  part  of  the 
poem  that  follows :  — 

Long  time  he  rode,  till  suddenly,  He  found  at  last  that  he  had  won 

When  now  the  sun  was  broad  and  high.  That  highland's  edge  and  gazed  upon 

From  out  a  hollow  where  the  yew  A  valley  that  beneath  the  haze 

Still  guarded  patches  of  the  dew,  Of  that  most  fair  of  autumn  days 


590 


HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 


Showed  glorious ;  fair  with  go'.den  sheaves, 
Rich  with  the  darkened  autumn  leaves, 
Gay  with  the  water-meadows  green, 
The  bright  blue  streams  that  lay  between, 
The  miles  of  beauty  stretched  away 
From  that  bleak  hill-side  bare  and  gray. 
Till  white  cliffs  over  slopes  of  vine 
Drew  'gainst  the  sky  a  broken  line. 
And  'twixt  the  vineyards  and  the  stream 
Michael  saw  gilded  spirelets  gleam  ; 
For,  hedged  with  many  a  flowery  close, 
There  lay  the  Castle  of  the  Rose, 
His  hurried  journey's  aim  and  end. 

Then  downward  he  began  to  wend, 
And  'twixt  the  flowery  hedges  sweet 
He  heard  the  hook  smite  down  the  wheat, 
And  murmur  of  the  unseen  folk  ; 
But  when  he  reached  the  stream  that  broke 
The  golden  plain,  but  leisurely 
He  passed  the  bridge,  for  he  could  see 
The  masters  of  that  ripening  realm, 
Cast  down  beneath  an  ancient  elm 
Upon  a  little  strip  of  grass, 
From  hand  to  hand  the  pitcher  pass, 
Wh'.le  on  the  turf  beside  them  lay 
The  ashen-handled  sickles  gray, 
The  matters  of  their  cheer  between  : 
Slices  of  white  cheese,  specked  wi>h  green. 
And  green-striped  onions  and  rye-bread, 
And  summer  apples  faintly  red, 
Even  beneath  the  crimson  skin  ; 
And  yellow  grapes,  well  ripe  and  thin, 
Plucked  from  the  cottage  gable-end. 

And  certes  Michael  felt  their  friend 
Hearing  their  voices,  nor  forgot 
His  boyhood  and  the  pleasant  spot 
Beside  the  well-remembered  stream  : 
And  friendly  did  this  water  seem 
As  through  its  white-flowered  weeds  it  ran 
Bearing  good  things  to  beast  and  man. 

Yea,  as  the  parapet  he  passed. 
And  they  a  greeting  toward  h'm  cast, 
Once  more  he  felt  a  boy  again  ; 
As  though  beneath  the  harvest  wain 
He  was  asleep,  by  that  old  stream, 
And  all  these  things  were  but  a  dream,  — 
The  King,  the  squire,  the  hurrying  ride 
Unto  the  lonely  quagmire  side  ; 
The  sudden  pain,  the  deadly  swoon, 
The  feverish  life  from  noon  to  noon  ; 
The  tending  of  the  kind  old  man. 
The  black  and  white  Dominican, 
The  kour  before  the  Abbot's  throne. 
The  poring  o'er  old  books  alone. 


In  summer  morn  ;  the  King  again, 
The  envious  greetings  of  strange  men. 
This  mighty  horse  and  rich  array, 
This  journey  on  an  unknown  way. 

Sure'y  he  thought  to  wake  from  it, 
And  once  more  by  the  wagon  sit. 
Blinking  upon  the  sunny  mill. 

But  not  for  either  good  or  ill 
Shall  he  see  one  of  all  those  days  ; 
On  through  the  quivering  noontide  haze 
He  rode,  and  now  on  either  hand 
Heavy  with  fruit  the  trees  did  stand ; 
Nor  had  he  ridden  long,  ere  he 
The  red  towers  of  the  house  could  see 
Gr.iy  on  the  wind-beat  southern  side : 
And  soon  the  gates  thrown  open  wide 
He  saw,  the  long-fixed  drawbridge  down. 
The  moat,  with  lilies  overgrown, 
'Midst  which  the  gold-scaled  fishes  lay: 
Such  peace  was  there  for  many  a  day. 

And  deep  within  the  archway's  shade 
The  warder  on  his  cloak  was  laid, 
Dozing,  one  hand  upon  a  harp. 
And  nigh  him  a  great  golden  carp 
Lay  stiffi  with  all  his  troubles  done. 
Drawn  from  the  moat  ere  yet  the  sun 
Was  high,  and  nigh  him  was  his  bane, 
An  angling-rod  of  Indian  cane. 

Now  hearing  Michael's  horse-hoofs  smite 
The  causeway,  shading  from  the  light 
His  eyes,  as  one  scarce  yet  awake, 
He  made  a  shift  his  spear  to  take, 
And,  eying  Michael's  badge  the  while. 
Rose  up,  and  with  a  lazy  smile 
Said,  "  Ho  !  fair  sir,  abide,  abide. 
And  show  why  hitherward  ye  ride 
Unto  my  lady's  royal  home." 
Said  Michael,  "From  the  King  I  come, 
As  by  my  badge  ye  well  may  see  ; 
And  letters  have  I  here  with  me 
To  give  my  lord  the  seneschal." 

"  Yea, "  said  the  man.     "  But  in  the  hall 
He  feasteth  now  ;  what  haste  is  there  ? 
Certes  full  quickly  cometh  care  ; 
And  sure  I  am  he  will  not  read 
Thy  letters,  or  to  aught  give  heed 
Till  he  has  played  out  all  the  play, 
And  every  guest  has  gone  away  ; 
So  thou,  O  damoiseau,  must  wait ; 
Tie  up  thine  horse  anigh  the  gate. 
And  sit  with  me,  and  thou  shalt  hear 
The  Kaiser  lieth  on  his  bier. 
Thou  laugh  est,  —  hast  thou  never  heard 
Of  this  same  valorous  Red  Beard, 
And  how  he  died  ?  well,  I  can  sing 
Of  many  another  dainty  thing. 


WILLIAM  MORRIS. 


59» 


Thou  wilt  not  a  long  while  forget, 
The  budget  is  not  empty  yet. 
Peter  !  I  think  thou  mockest  me, 
But  thou  art  young  and  fair,  perdie, 
I  wish  thee  luck,  — well,  thou  mayst  go 
And  feel  the  afternoon  wind  blow 
Within  Dame  Bertha's  pleasance  here ; 
She  who  was  held  so  lief  and  dear, 
All  this  was  built  but  for  her  sake, 
Who  made  the  hearts  of  men  to  ache ; 
And  dying  full  of  years  and  shame 
Yet  left  an  unforgotten  name,  — 
God  rest  her  soul !  " 

Michael  the  while 
Hearkened  his  talking  wiih  a  smile, 
Then  said,  "  O  friend,  I  think  to  hear 
Both  '  The  King  lieth  on  his  bier ' 
And  many  another  song  of  thee, 
Ere  I  depart ;  but  now  show  me 
The  pleasance  of  the  ancient  queen. 
For  these  red  towers  above  the  green 
Show  like  the  gates  of  paradise. 
That  surely  somewhere  through  them  lies." 

Then  said  the  warder,  "That  may  be 
If  thou  know' St  what  may  come  to  thee. 
When  past  the  drawbridge  thou  hast  gone. 
Upon  the  left  three  steps  of  stone 
Lead  to  a  path  beneath  the  wall 
Of  the  great  court,  that  folk  now  call 
The  falconer's  path,  nor  canst  thou  miss 
Going  thereby,  to  find  the  bliss 
Thou  look'st  for,  since  the  path  ends  there, 
And  through  a  wicket  gilded  fair 
The  garden  lies  where  thou  wouldst  be : 
Nor  will  I  fail  to  come  to  thee 
Whene'er  my  lord  the  seneschal 
Shall  pass  well  fed  from  out  the  hall." 

Then  Michael,  thanking  him,  passed  on, 
And  soon  the  gilded  wicket  won. 
And  entered  that  pleasance  sweet, 
And  wandered  there  with  wary  feet 
And  open  mouth,  as  though  he  deemed 
That  in  some  lovely  dream  he  dreamed. 
And  feared  to  wake  to  common  day. 
So  fair  was  all ;  and  e'en  decay 
Brought  there  but  pensive  loveliness. 
Where  autumn  those  old  walls  did  bless 
With  wealth  of  fruit,  and  through  the  grass 
Unscared  the  spring-born  thrush  did  pass. 
Who  yet  knew  nought  of  winter-tide. 
So  wandering,  to  a  fountain's  side 
He  came,  and  o'er  the  basin  hung, 
Watching  the  fishes,  as  he  sung 
Some  song  remembered  from  of  old. 
Ere  yet  the  miller  won  that  gold. 
But  soon  made  drowsy  with  his  ride, 


And  the  warm,  hazy  autumn-tide, 
And  many  a  nmsical  sweet  sound, 

He  cast  him  down  upon  the  ground, 
And  watched  the  glittering  water  leap. 

Still  singing  low,  nor  thought  to  sleep. 
But  scarce  three  minutes  had  gone  by 

Before,  as  if  in  mockery. 

The  starling  chattered  o'er  his  head, 

And  nothing  he  remembered, 

Nor  dreamed  of  aught  that  he  had  seep- 
Meanwhile  unto  that  garden  green 

Had  come  the  Princess,  and  with  her 

A  maiden  that  she  held  right  dear. 

Who  knew  the  inmost  of  her  mind. 

Now  those  twain,  as  the  scented  wind 

Played  with  their  raiment  or  their  hair. 

Had  late  been  running  here  and  there, 

Chasing  each  other  merrily, 

As  maids  do,  thinking  no  one  by ; 

But  now,  well  wearied  therewithal, 

Had  let  their  gathered  garments  fall 

About  their  feet,  and  slowly  went ; 

And  through  the  leaves  a  murmur  sent. 

As  of  two  happy  doves  that  sing 

The  soft  returning  of  the  spring. 

Now  of  these  twain  the  Princess  spoka 

The  less,  but  into  laughter  broke 
Not  seldom,  and  would  redden  oft, 

As  on  her  lips  her  fingers  soft 
She  laid,  as  still  the  other  maid, 
Half  grave,  half  smiling,  follies  said. 

So  in  their  walk  they  drew  anigh 
That  fountain  in  the  midst,  whereby 
Lay  Michael  sleeping,  dreaming  nought 
Of  such  fair  things  so  nigh  him  brought ; 
They,  when  the  fountain  shaft  was  passed. 
Beheld  liim  on  the  ground  downcast. 
And  stopped  at*  first,  until  the  maid 
Stepped  lightly  forward  to  the  shade, 
And  when  she  had  gazed  there  a  while 
Came  running  back  again,  a  smile 
Parting  her  lips,  and  her  bright  eyes 
Afire  with  many  fantasies ; 
And  ere  the  Lady  Cecily 
Could  speak  a  word,  "Hush  !  hush  !"  said 

she; 
"Did  I  not  say  that  he  would  come 
To  woo  thee  in  thy  peaceful  home 
Before  thy  father  brought  him  here  ? 
Come,  and  behold  him,  have  no  fear  I 
The  great  bell  would  not  wake  him  now, 
Right  in  his  ears." 

"  Nay,  what  dost  thou  ?  " 
The  Princess  said  ;   "  let  us  go  hence  ; 
Thou  know' St  I  give  obedience 


592 


HAND-BOOK   OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 


To  vfhat  my  father  bids  ;  but  I 
A  maid  full  fain  would  live  and  die, 
Since  I  am  born  to  be  a  queen. " 

"  Yea,  yea,  for  such  as  thou  hast  seen, 
That  may  be  well, "  the  other  said. 
"  But  come  now,  come ;  for  by  my  head 
This  one  must  be  from  Paradise  ; 
Come  swiftly  then,  if  thou  art  wise, 
Ere  aught  can  snatch  him  back  again." 

She  caught  her  hand,  and  not  in  vain 
She  prayed ;  for  now  some  kindly  thought 
To  Cecily's  brow  fair  color  brought. 
And  quickly  'gan  her  heart  to  beat 
As  Love  drew  near  those  eyes  to  greet. 
Who  knew  him  not  till  that  sweet  hour. 

So  over  the  fair,  pink-edged  flower, 
Softly  she  stepped  ;  but  when  she  came 
Anigh  the  sleeper,  lovely  shame 
Cast  a  soft  mist  before  her  eyes 
Full  filled  of  many  fantasies. 
But  when  she  saw  him  lying  there 
She  smiled  to  see  her  mate  so  fair ; 
And  in  her  heart  did  Love  begin 
To  tell  his  tale,  nor  thought  sha  sin 
To  gaze  on  him  that  was  her  own, 
Not  doubting  he  was  come  alone 
To  woo  her,  whom  'midst  arms  and  gold 
She  deemed  she  should  at  first  behold ; 
And  with  that  thought  love  grew  again 
Until  departing  was  a  pain. 
Though  fear  grew  with  that  growing  love. 
And  with  her  lingering  footsteps  strove 
As  from  the  place  she  turned  to  go, 
Sighing  and  murmuring  words  full  low. 
But  as  her  raiment's  hem  she  raised. 
And  for  her  merry  fellow  gazed 
Shamefaced  and  changed,  she  met  her  eyes 
Turned  grave  and  sad  with  ill  surprise ; 
Who  while  the  Princess  mazed  did  stand 
Had  drawn  from  Michael's  loosened  band 
The  King's  scroll,  which  she  held  out  now 
To  Cecily,  and  whispered  low, 
"  Read,  and  do  quickly  what  thou  wilt,  — 
Sad,  sad  !  such  fair  life  to  be  spilt : 
Come  further  first." 

With  that  they  stepped 
A  pace  or  two  from  where  he  slept, 
And  then  she  read, 

"Lord  Seneschal, 
On  thee  and  thine  may  all  good  fall ; 
Greeting  hereby  the  King  sendeth, 
And  biddeth  thee  to  put  to  death 
His  enemy  who  beareth  this  ; 
And  as  thou  lovest  life  and  bliss. 
And  all  thy  goods  thou  boldest  dear, 


Set  thou  his  head  upon  a  spear 
A  good  half  furlong  from  the  gate, 
Our  coming  hitherward  to  wait,  — 
So  perish  the  King's  enemies  !  " 

She  read,  and  scarcely  had  her  eyes 
Seen  clear  her  father's  name  and  seal. 
Ere  all  love's  powers  her  heart  did  feel, 
That  drew  her  back  in  spite  of  shame. 
To  him  who  was  not  e'en  a  name 
Unto  her  a  short  hour  agone. 
Panting  she  said,  "  Wait  thou  alone 
Beside  him,  watch  him  carefully, 
And  let  him  sleep  if  none  draw  nigh. 
If  of  himself  he  waketh,  then 
Hide  him  until  I  come  again. 
When  thou  hast  told  him  of  the  snare,  — 
If  thou  betrayest  me,  beware  ! 
For  death  shall  be  the  least  of  all 
The  ills  that  on  thine  head  shall  fall. 
What  say  I  ?  —  thou  art  dear  to  me. 
And  doubly  dear  now  shalt  thou  be. 
Thou  shalt  have  power  and  majesty. 
And  be  more  queen  in  all  than  I. 
Few  words  are  best,  be  wise,  be  wise  1 " 

Withal  she  turned  about  her  eyes 
Once  more,  and  swiftly  as  a  man 
Betwixt  the  garden  trees  she  ran. 
Until,  her  own  bower  reached  at  last. 
She  made  good  haste,  and  quickly  passed 
Unto  her  secret  treasury. 
There,  hurrying  since  the  time  was  nigh 
For  folk  to  come  from  meat,  she  took 
From  'twixt  the  leaves  of  a  great  book 
A  royal  scroll,  signed,  sealed,  but  blank. 
Then,  with  a  hand  that  never  shrank 
Or  trembled,  she  the  scroll  did  fill 
With  these  words,  writ  with  clerkly  skill,  - 
"  Unto  the  Seneschal,  Sir  Rafe, 
Who  holdeth  our  fair  castle  safe, 
Greeting  and  health  !    O  well  beloved, 
Know  that  at  this  time  we  are  moved 
To  wed  our  daughter,  so  we  send 
Him  who  bears  this,  our  perfect  friend, 
To  be  her  bridegroom  ;  so  do  thou 
Ask  nought  of  him,  since  well  we  know 
His  race  and  great  nobility. 
And  how  he  is  most  fit  to  be 
Our  son  ;  therefore  make  no  delay, 
But  wed  the  twain  upon  the  day 
Thou  readest  this  ;  and  see  that  all 
Take  oath  to  him,  whate'er  shall  fall 
To  do  his  bidding  as  our  heir ; 
So  doing  still  be  lief  and  dear 
As  I  have  held  thee  yet  to  be." 

She  cast  the  pen  down  hastily 


WILLIAM   MORRIS. 


59^ 


At  that  last  letter,  for  she  heard 
How  even  now  the  people  stirred 
Within  the  hall :  nor  dared  she  think 
What  bitter  potion  she  must  drink 
It  now  she  failed,  so  falsely  bold 
ThTit  life  or  death  did  she  infold 
Within  its  cover,  making  shift 
To  seal  it  with  her  father's  gift, 
A  signet  of  camelian. 

Then  swiftly  down  the  stairs  she  ran 
And  reached  the  garden  ;  but  her  fears 
Brought  shouts  and  thunder  to  her  ears, 
That  were  but  lazy  words  of  men 
Full  fed,  far  off;  nay,  even  when 
Her  limbs  caught  up  her  flying  gown 
The  noise  seemed  loud  enough  to  drown 
The  twitter  of  the  autumn  birds, 
And  her  own  muttered  breathless  words 
That  to  her  heart  seemed  loud  indeed. 

Yet  therewithal  she  made  good  speed 
And  reached  the  fountain  seen  of  none, 
Wh  jre  yet  abode  her  friend  a'.one, 
Watching  the  sleeper,  who  just  now 
Turned  in  his  sleep  and  muttered  low. 
Therewith  fair  Agnes  saying  nought 
From  out  her  hand  the  letter  caught  ; 
And  while  she  leaned  against  the  stone 
Stole  up  to  Michael's  side  alone, 
And  with  a  coo!,  unshrinking  hand 
Thrust  the  new  scroll  deep  in  his  band. 
And  turned  about  unto  her  friend : 
Who,  having  come  unto  the  end 
Of  all  her  courage,  trembled  there 
With  fsce  upturned  for  frssher  air, 
And  parted  lips  grown  gray  and  pale, 
And  liml  s  that  now  began  to  fail, 
And  hands  wherefrom  all  strength  had  gone. 
Scarce  fresher  than  the  blue-veined  stone 
That  quivering  still  she  strove  to  clutch. 

But  when  she  felt  her  lady's  touch. 
Feebly  she  said,  "Go  !  let  me  die 
And  end  this  sudden  misery 
That  in  such  wise  has  wrapped  my  life, 
I  am  too  weak  for  such  a  strife. 
So  sick  I  am  with  shame  and  fear : 
Would  thou  hadst  never  brought  me  here  ! " 

But  Agnes  took  her  hand  and  said, 
*'  Nay,  Queen,  and  must  we  three  be  dead 
Because  thou  fearest  ?     All  is  safe 
If  boldly  thou  wilt  face  Sir  Rafe." 

So  saying,  did  she  draw  her  hence, 
Past    tree,    and  bower,    and  high-pleached 

fence 
Unto  the  garden's  further  end, 
And  left  her  there,  and  back  did  wend, 

38 


And  from  the  house  made  haste  to  get 
A  gilded  maund  wherein  she  set 
A  flask  of  ancient  island  wine. 
Ripe  fruits  and  wheaten  manchets  fine. 
And  many  such  n  delicate 
As  goddesses  in  old  time  ate. 
Ere  Helen  was  a  Trojan  queen  ; 
So  pissing  through  the  garden  green 
She  cast  her  eager  eyes  again 
Upon  the  spot  where  he  had  lain, 
But  found  it  empty,  so  sped  on 
Till  she  at  last  the  place  had  won 
Where  Cecily  lay  weak  and  white 
Within  that  fair  bower  of  delight. 

Her  straight  she  made  to  eat  and  drink. 
And  said,  "  See  now  thou  dost  not  shrink 
From  this  thy  deed  ;  let  love  slay  fear 
Now,  when  tby  life  shall  grow  so  dear. 
Each  minute  should  seem  lost  to  thee 
If  thou  for  thy  felicity 
Couldst  stay  to  count  them  ;  for  I  say, 
This  day  shall  be  thy  happy  day." 

Therewith  she  smiled  to  see  the  wine 
Embraced  by  her  fingers  fine  ; 
And  her  sweet  face  grow  bright  again 
With  sudden  pleasure  after  pain. 
Again  she  spoke,  "  What  is  this  word 
That,  dreaming,  I  perchance  have  heard. 
But  certainly  remember  well ; 
That  some  old  soothsayer  did  tell 
Strange  things  unto  my  lord,  the  King, 
That  on  thy  hand  the  spousal  ring 
No  Kaiser's  son,  no  King  should  set. 
But  one  a  peasant  did  beget,  — 
What  say'st  thou  ?  " 

But  the  Queen  flushed  red  ; 
"Such  fables  I  have  heard,"  she  said  ; 
"And  thou — is  it  such  scath  to  me. 
The  bride  of  such  a  man  to  be  ? " 

"Nay,"   said  she,    "God  will  have  him 
King: 
How  shall  we  do  a  better  thing 
With  this  or  that  one  than  He  can  ? 
God's  friend  must  be  a  goodly  man." 

But  with  that  word  she  heard  the  sound 
Of  folk  who  through  the  mazes  wound 
Bearing  the  message  ;  then  she  said, 
"  Be  strong,  pluck  up  thine  hardihead. 
Speak  little,  so  sha'l  all  be  well, 
For  now  our  owii  tale  will  they  tell." 

And  even  as  she  spoke  they  came, 
And  all  the  green  place  was  aflame 
With  golden  raiment  of  the  lords  ; 
While  Cecily,  noting  not  their  words. 
Rose  up  to  go  ;  and  for  her  part 


594 


HAND-1500K   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 


By  ihis  had  fate  so  stee'ed  her  heart, 

Scarce  otherwise  she  seemed,  tlian  when 

She  passed  before  the  eyes  of  men 

At  tourney  or  liigh  festival. 

But  when  they  now  had  reached  the  hall. 

And  up  its  very  steps  they  went, 

Her  head  a  little  down  she  bent ; 

Nor  raised  it  till  the  dais  was  gained. 

For  fear  that  love  some  monster  feigned 

To  be  a  god,  and  she  should  be 

Smit  by  her  own  bolt  wretchedly. 

But  at  the  rustling,  crowded  dais 

She  gathered  heart  h;r  eyes  to  raise. 

And  there  beheld  her  love,  indeed, 

Clad  in  her  father's  serving  weed, 

But  proud,  and  flushed,  and  calm  withal, 

Fearless  of  aught  that  m'ght  befall, 

Nor  too  astonied,  for  he  thought,  — 

"  From  point  to  point  my  life  is  brought 

Through  wonders  ti  1  it  comes  to  this ; 

And  trouble  cometh  after  bliss. 

And  I  will  bear  a.l  as  I  may, 

And  ever,  as  day  passeth  day, 

My  life  will  hammer  from  the  twain, 

Forging  a  long-enduring  chain." 

But  'midst  these  thoughts  their  young  eyes 
met. 
And  every  word  did  he  forget 
Wherewith  men  name  unhappiness, 
As  read  again  those  words  did  bless 
With  double  blessings  his  glad  ears. 
And  if  she  trembled  with  her  fears, 
And  if  with  doubt,  and  love,  and  shame, 
The  rosy  color  went  and  cr.me 
In   her    sweet    checks   and   smooth  bright 

brow, 
Little  did  folk  think  of  it  now, 
But  as  of  maiden  modesty. 
Shamefaced  to  see  the  bridegroom  nigh. 

And  now  when  Rafe  the  Seneschal 
Had  read  the  message  down  the  Hall, 
And  turned  to  her,  quite  calm  again 
Her  face  had  gruwn,  and  with  no  pain 
She  raised  her  serious  eyes  to  his. 
Grown  soft  and  pensive  with  his  bliss, 
And  said,  — 

"Prince,  thou  art  welcome  here. 
Where  all  my  father  loves  is  dear, 
And  full  trust  do  I  put  in  thee, 
For  that  so  great  nobiiity 
He  knoweth  in  thee  ;  be  as  kind 
As  I  would  be  to  thee,  and  find 
A  happy  life  from  day  to  day, 
Till  all  our  days  are  passed  away." 

What  more  than  found  the  bystanders 
He  found  within  this  speech  of  hers, 


I  know  not ;  some  faint  quivering 
In  the  last  words  ;  some  little  thing 
That  checked  the  cold  words'  even  flow. 
But  yet  they  set  his  heart  aglow, 
And  he  in  turn  said  eagerly,  — 

"Surely  I  count  it  nought  to  die 
For  him  who  brought  me  unto  this ; 
For  thee,  who  givest  me  this  bliss  ; 
Yea,  even  dost  me  such  a  grace 
To  look  with  kind  eyes  in  my  face. 
And  send  sweet  music  to  my  ears." 

But  at  his  words  she,  mazed  with  tears. 
Seemed  faint,  and  failing  quickly,  when 
Above  the  low  hum  of  the  men 
Uprose  the  sweet  bells'  sudden  clang, 
As  men  unto  the  chapel  rang  ; 
While  just  outside  the  singing  folk 
Into  most  heavenly  caro's  broke- 
And  going  softly  up  the  hall 
Boys  bore  aloft  the  verges  tall 
Before  the  bishop's  gold-clad  head. 

Then  forth  his  bride  young  Michael  led. 
And  nought  to  him  Feemed  good  or  bad 
Except  the  lovely  hand  he  had  ; 
But  she  the  while  was  murmuring  low, 
"If  he  could  know,  if  he  could  know. 
What  love,  what  love,  his  love  should  be  !  ** 

But  while  'mid  mirth  and  minstrelsy 
The  ancient  Castle  of  the  Rose 
Such  pageant  to  the  autumn  shows 
The  King  sits  ill  at  ease  at  home, 
For  in  these  days  the  news  is  come 
That  he  who  in  hi?  line  sb.ould  wed 
Lies  in  his  own  town  stark  and  dead. 
Slain  in  a  tumult  in  the  street. 

Brooding  on  this  he  deemed  it  meet. 
Since  nigh  the  day  was  come  wlien  she 
Her  bridegroom's  visnge  looked  to  see. 
To  hold  the  settled  day  with  her. 
And  bid  her  at  the  lerst  to  wear 
Dull  mourning  guise  for  rold  and  white. 
So  on  another  morning  bright, 
When  the  whole  promised  month  was  past, 
He  drew  anigh  the  place  at  last 
Where  Michae.'s  dead  head,  looking  down 
Upon  the  highway  wi  h  a  frown, 
He  doubted  not  at  last  to  see. 
So  'twixt  the  fruitful  greenery 
He  rode,  scarce  touched  by  care  the  while, 
Humming  a  roundel  with  a  smile. 

Withal,  ere  yet  he  drew  anigh. 
He  heard  their  watrh-hrrn  sound  fromhigK, 
Nor  wondered,  for  th  ir  wont  was  so. 
And  well  h's  banner  they  might  know 
Amidst  the  stubble-lands  afar: 


WILLIAM   MORRIS. 


595 


But  now  a  distant  point  of  war 

He  seemed  to  hear,  and  bade  draw  rein, 

But  listening  cried,  "Push  on  again  ! 

They  do  but  send  forth  minstrelsy 

Because  my  daughter  thinks  to  see 

The  man  who  lieth  on  his  bier." 

So  on  they  passed,  till  sharp  and  clear 

They  heard  the  pipe  and  shrill  fife  sound  ; 

And  restlessly  the  King  glanced  round 

To  see  that  he  had  striven  for, 

The  crushing  of  that  sage's  lore, 

The  last  confusion  of  that  fate. 

But  drawn  still  nigher  to  the  gate 
They  turned  a  sharp  bend  of  the  road, 
And  saw  the  pageant  that  abode 
The  solemn  coming  of  the  King. 

For  first  on  each  side,  maid's  did  sing. 
Dressed  in  gold  raiment ;  then  there  came 
The  minstrels  in  their  coats  of  flame  ; 
And  then  the  many-co'ored  lords, 
The   knights'   spears,   and  the   swordmen's 

swords, 
Backed  by  the  g'ittering  wood  of  bills. 

So  now,  presaging  many  ills, 
The  King  drew  rein,  yet  none  the  less 
He  shrank  not  from  his  hardiness, 
But  thought,  "  Well,  at  the  worst  I  die, 
And  yet  perchance  long  life  may  lie 
Before  me  —  I  will  hold  my  peace  ; 
The  dumb  man's  borders  still  increase." 

But  as  he  strengthened  thus  his  heart 
He  saw  the  crowd  before  him  part. 
And  down  the  long,  melodious  lane. 
Hand  locked  in  hand  there  passed  the  twain, 
As  fair  as  any  earth  has  found. 
Clad  as  kings'  children  are,  and  crowned. 
Behind  them  went  the  chiefest  lords, 
And  two  old  knights  with  sheathed  swords 
The  banners  of  the  kingdom  bore. 

But  now  the  king  had  pondered  sore, 
By  when  they  reached  him,  though,  indeed. 
The  time  was  short  unto  his  need, 
Betwixt  his  heart's  first  startled  pang 
And  those  old  banner-bearers'  clang 
Anigh  his  saddle-bow  ;  but  he 
Across  their  heads  scowled  heavily, 
Not  saying  aught  a  while  :  at  last. 
Ere  any  glance  at  them  he  cast. 
He  said,  "Whence  come  ye  ?  what  are  ye? 
What  play  is  this  ye  play  to  me  ? " 

None  answered,  —  Cecily,  faint  and  white. 
The  rather  Michael's  hand  clutched  tight, 
And  seemed  to  speak,  b  it  not  one  word 
The  nearest  to  her  could  have  heard. 
Then  the  King  spoke  again,  —  "Sir  Rafe, 


Meseems  this  youngling  came  here  safe 
A  week  agone  ?  " 

"Yea,  sir,"  he  said  ; 
"  Therefore  the  twain  I  straight  did  wed, 
E'en  as  thy  letters  bound  me  to." 
"And  thus  thou  diddest  well  to  do," 
The  King  said.     "Tell  me  on  what  day 
Her  old  life  she  did  put  away." 

"  Sire,  the  eleventh  day  this  is 
Since  that  they  gained  their  earthly  bliss," 
Quoth  old  Sir  Rafe.    The  King  said  nought. 
But  with  his  head  bowed  down  in  thought. 
Stood  a  long  while  ;  but  at  the  last 
Upward  a  smiling  face  he  cast. 
And  cried  aloud  above  the  folk  : 
"Shout  for  the  joining  of  the  yoke 
Betwixt  these  twain  !  and  thou,  fair  lord. 
Who  dost  so  well  my  every  word, 
Nor  makest  doubt  of  anything. 
Wear  thou  the  collar  of  thy  King  ; 
And  a  duke's  banner,  cut  foursquare. 
Henceforth  shall  men  before  thee  bear 
In  tourney  and  in  stricken  field. 

"  But  this  mine  heir  shall  bear  my  shield. 
Carry  my  banner,  wear  my  crown, 
Ride  equal  with  me  through  my  town, 
Sit  on  the  same  step  of  the  throne ; 
In  nothing  will  I  reign  alone  ; 
Nor  be  ye  with  him  miscontent, 
For  that  with  little  ornament 
Of  gold  and  folk  to  you  he  came ; 
For  he  is  of  an  ancient  name 
That  needeth  not  the  clink  of  gold  — 
The  ancientest  the  world  doth  hold  ; 
For  in  the  fertile  Asian  land, 
Where  great  Damascus  now  doth  stand. 
Ages  agone  his  line  was  born. 
Ere  yet  men  knew  the  gift  of  com : 
And  there,  anigh  to  Paradise, 
His  ancestors  grew  stout  and  wise ; 
And  certes  he  from  Asia  bore 
No  little  of  their  piercing  lore. 

"  Look  then  to  have  great  happiness, 
For  every  wrong  shall  he  redress." 

Then  did  the  people's  shouting  drown 
His  clatter  as  he  leapt  adown, 
And,  taking  in  each  hand  a  hand 
Of  the  two  lovers,  now  did  stand 
Betwixt  them  on  the  flower-strewn  way, 
And  to  himself  meanwhile  'gan  say,  — 

"  How  many  an  hour  might  I  have  been 
Right  merry  in  the  gardens  green ; 
How  many  a  glorious  day  had  I 
Made  happy  with  some  victory : 


596 


HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 


What  noble  deeds  I  might  have  done, 

What  bright  renown  my  deeds  have  won  ; 

What  blessings  would  have  made  me  glad 

What  little  burdens  had  I  had ; 

What  calmness  in  the  hope  of  praise  ; 

What  joy  of  well-accomplished  days, 

If  I  had  let  these  things  alone  ; 

Nor  sought  to  sit  upon  my  throne 

Like  God  between  the  cherubim. 

But  now,  —  but  now,  my  days  wax  dim, 

And  all  this  fairness  have  I  tost 

Unto  the  winds,  and  all  have  lost 

For  nought,  for  nought !  yet  will  I  strive 

My  little  end  of  life  to  live ; 

Nor  will  I  look  behind  me  more, 

Nor  forward  to  the  doubtful  shore." 

With  that  he  made  the  sign  to  turn. 


And  straight  the  autumn  air  did  bum 
With  many  a  point  of  steel  and  gold ; 
And  through  the  trees  the  carol  rolled 
Once  more,  until  the  autumn  thrush 
Far  off  'gan  twittering  on  his  bush, 
Made  mindful  of  the  long-lived  spring. 

So  mid  sweet  song  and  taborins    * 
And  shouts  amid  the  apple-grove, 
And  soft  caressing  of  his  love. 
Began  the  new  King  Michael's  reign. 
Nor  will  the  poor  folk  see  again 
A  king  like  him  on  any  throne. 
Or  such  good  deeds  to  all  men  done ; 
For  then,  as  saith  the  chronicle. 
It  was  the  time,  as  all  men  tell, 
When  scarce  a  man  would  stop  to  gaze 
At  gold  crowns  hung  above  the  ways. 


ROBERT   BUCHANAN. 

Robert  Buchanan  was  born  in  1841,  and  was  educated  at  the  High  School  and  the  Uni- 
versity of  Glasgow.  His  first  work.  Undertones,  appeared  in  i860,  followed  by  Idyls  and 
Legends  of  Inverburn  in  1865,  and  London  Poems  in  1866.  Mr.  Buchanan  edited  Wayside 
Poems,  and  contributed  to  the  Danish  Ballads  in  1866.  American  editions  of  his  poems  are 
published  by  Roberts  Brothers.  It  is  impossible  as  yet  to  assign  him  any  definite  rank 
among  poets.  His  poems  seem  to  give  promise  of  something  better  than  he  has  yet 
accomplished. 

FROM   A   SKETCH    OF   INVERBURN. 

Seven  pleasant  miles  by  wood,  and  stream,  and  moor. 

Seven  miles  along  the  country  road  that  wound 

Uphill  and  downhill  in  a  thin  red  line. 

Then  from  the  forehead  of  a  hill,  behold  — 

Lying  below  me,  sparkling  ruby-like,  — 

The  village  !  —  quaint  old  gables,  roofs  of  thatch, 

A  glimmering  spire  that  peeped  above  the  firs, 

The  sunset  lingering  orange-red  on  all. 

And  nearer,  tumbhng  through  a  mossy  bridge, 

The  river  that  I  knew  !     No  wondrous  peep 

Into  the  faery  land  of  Oberon, 

Its  bowers,  its  glowworm-lighted  colonnades 

Where  pygmy  lovers  wandered  two  by  two. 

Could  weigh  upon  the  city  wanderer's  heart 

With  peace  so  pure  as  this  !     Why,  yonder  stood, 

A  fledgeling's  downward  flight  beyond  the  spire, 


ROBERT   BUCHANAN.  597 

The  gray  old  manse,  endeared  by  memories 

Of  Jean  the  daughter  of  the  minister  ; 

And  in  the  cottage  with  the  painted  sign,  • 

Hard  by  the  bridge,  how  many  a  winter  night 

Had  I  with  poHticians  sapient-eyed 

Discussed  the  country  paper's  latest  news, 

And  tippled  Sandie's  best !     And  nought  seemed  changed  ) 

The  very  gig  before  the  smithy  door. 

The  barefoot  lassie  with  the  milking-pail 

Pausing  and  looking  backward  from  the  bridge, 

The  last  rook  wavering  homeward  to  the  wood. 

All  seemed  a  sunset-picture,  every  tint 

Unchanged,  since  I  had  bade  the  place  farewell. 

My  heart  grew  garrulous  of  olden  times, 

And  my  face  saddened,  as  I  sauntered  down. 

There  came  a  rural  music  on  my  ears,  — 

The  wagons  in  the  lanes,  the  waterfall 

With  cool  sound  plunging  in  its  wood-nest  wild, 

The  rooks  amid  the  windy  rookery, 

The  shouts  of  children,  and  afar  away 

The  crowing  of  a  cock.     Then  o'er  the  bridge 

I  bent,  above  the  river  gushing  down 

Through  mossy  boulders,  making  underneath 

Green-shaded  pools  where  now  and  then  a  trout 

Sank  in  the  ripple  of  its  own  quick  leap ; 

And  like  some  olden  and  familiar  tune. 

Half-hummed  aloud,  half-tinkling  in  the  brain, 

Troublously,  faintly,  came  the  buzz  of  looms. 

And  here  I  lingered,  nested  in  the  shade 

Of  Peace,  that  makes  a  music  as  she  grows  ; 

And  when  the  vale  had  put  its  glory  on 

The  bitter  aspiration  was  subdued, 

And  Pleasure,  though  she  wore  a  woodland  crown, 

Looked  at  me  with  Ambition's  serious  eyes. 

Amid  the  deep-green  woods  of  pine,  whose  boughs 

Made  a  sea-music  overhead,  and  caught 

White  flakes  of  sunlight  on  their  highest  leaves, 

I  fostered  solemn  meditations  ; 

Stretched  on  the  sloping  river  banks,  fresh  prinked 

With  gowans  and  the  meek  anemone, 


598  HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

I  watched  the  bright  king-fisher  dart  about, 

His  quick,  small  shadow  with  an  azure 

Startling  the  minnows  in  the  pool  beneath  ; 

Or  out  upon  the  moors,  where  far  away 

Across  the  waste  the  sportsman  with  his  gun 

Stood  a  dark  speck  across  the  sky,  what  time 

The  heath-hen  floundered  through  the  furze  and  fell, 

I  caught  the  solemn  wind  that  wandered  down 

With  thunder-echoes  heaved  among  the  hills. 

Nor  lacked  I,  in  the  balmy  summer  nights, 

Or  on  the  days  of  rain,  such  counterpoise 

As  books  can  give. 


ANONYMOUS. 

THE   RELIEF   OF   LUCKNOW. 

It  should  be  remembered  that  General  Havelock  was  not  an  hour  too  soon  in  his  relief, 
as  the  advance  of  the  enemy's  batteries  and  mines  had  settled  the  fate  of  the  garrison  ;  and 
it  should  be  known  that  in  the  continual  uproar  of  the  cannonade,  and  the  obstructions  of 
military  works  and  buildings,  the  beleaguered  and  devoted  garrison  did  not  hear  or  see  any- 
thing of  the  advancing  relief  until  the  battle  had  been  fought  outside,  and  the  relieving 
force  was  marching  up  to  the  gates. 

[From  a  letter  to  the  London  Times,  by  a  lady,  the  wife  of  an  officer  at  Lucknow.] 

On  every  side  death  stared  us  in  the  face  ;  no  human  skill  could 
avert  it  any  longer.  We  saw  the  moment  approach  when  we  must 
bid  farewell  to  earth,  yet  without  feehng  that  unutterable  horror 
which  must  have  been  experienced  by  the  unhappy  victims  at  Cawn- 
pore.  We  were  resolved  rather  to  die  than  to  yield,  and  were  fully 
persuaded  that  in  twenty-four  hours  all  would  be  over.  The  engi- 
neers had  said  so,  and  all  knew  the  worst.  We  women  strove  to 
encourage  each  other,  and  to  perform  the  light  duties  which  had 
been  assigned  to  us,  such  as  conveying  orders  to  the  batteries,  and 
supplying  the  men  with  provisions,  especially  cups  of  coffee,  which 
we  prepared  day  and  night.  I  had  gone  out  to  try  and  make  myself 
useful,  in  company  with  Jessie  Brown,  the  wife  of  a  corporal  in  my 
husband's  regiment.  Poor  Jessie  had  been  in  a  state  of  restless 
excitement  all  through  the  siege,  and  had  fallen  away  visibly  within 
the  last  few  days.  A  constant  fever  consumed  her,  and  her  mind 
wandered  occasionally,  especially  that  day,  when  the  recollections  of 
home  seemed  powerfully  present  to  her.     At  last,  overcome  with 


ANONYMOUS.  599 

fatigue,  she  lay  down  on  the  ground,  wrapped  up  in  her  plaid.  I  sat 
beside  her,  promising  to  awaken  her  when,  as  she  said,  her  "  father 
should  return  from  the  ploughing."  She  fell  at  length  into  a  pro- 
found slumber,  motionless,  and  apparently  breathless,  her  head  rest- 
ing in  my  lap.  I  myself  could  no  longer  resist  the  inclination  to 
sleep,  in  spite  of  the  continual  roar  of  the  cannon.  Suddenly  I  was 
aroused  by  a  wild,  unearthly  scream  close  to  my  ear  :  my  compan- 
ion stood  upright  beside  me,  her  arms  raised,  and  her  head  bent  for- 
ward in  the  attitude  of  hstening.  A  look  of  intense  delight  broke 
over  her  countenance  ;  she  grasped  my  hand,  drew  me  towards  her, 
and  exclaimed,  ''  Dinna  ye  hear  it  ?  dinna  ye  hear  it  ?  Ay,  I'm  no 
dreaming  :  it's  the  slogan  o'  the  Highlanders  !  We're  saved  !  we're 
saved ! "  Then,  flinging  herself  on  her  knees,  she  thanked  God 
with  passionate  fervor.  I  felt  utterly  bewildered  ;  my  Enghsh  ears 
heard  only  the  roar  of  artillery,  and  I  thought  my  poor  Jessie  was 
still  raving  ;  but  she  darted  to  the  batteries,  and  I  heard  her  cry  in- 
cessantly to  the  men,'  "  Courage  !  courage  !  Hark  to  the  slogan  — 
to  the  Macgregor,  the  grandest  of  them  a'  !     Here's  help  at  last !  " 

To  describe  the  effect  of  these  words  upon  the  soldiers  would  be 
impossible.  For  a  moment  they  ceased  firing,  and  every  soul  lis- 
tened with  intense  anxiety.  Gradually,  however,  there  arose  a  mur- 
mur of  bitter  disappointment,  and  the  wailing  of  the  women,  who 
had  flocked  to  the  spot,  burst  out  anew  as  the  colonel  shook  his 
head.  Our  dull.  Lowland  ears  heard  only  the  rattle  of  the  mus- 
ketry. A  few  moments  more  of  this  death-like  suspense,  of  this  ag- 
onizing hope,  and  Jessie,  who  had  again  sunk  on  the  ground,  sprang 
to  her  feet,  and  cried,  in  a  voice  so  clear  and  piercing  that  it  was 
heard  along  the  whole  line,  "  Will  ye  no  believe  it  noo  ?  The  slogan 
has  ceased  indeed,  but  the  Campbells  are  comin'  !  D'ye  hear  ?  d'ye 
hear  ? "  At  that  moment  all  seemed  indeed  to  hear  the  voice  of 
God  in  the  distance,  when  the  pibroch  of  the  Highlanders  brought 
us  tidings  of  deliverance  ;  for  now  there  was  no  longer  any  doubt  of 
the  fact.  That  shrill,  penetrating,  ceaseless  sound,  which  rose  above 
all  other  sounds,  could  come  neither  from  the  advance  of  the  enemy, 
nor  from  the  work  oif  the  sappers.  No,  it  was  indeed  the  blast  of 
the  Scottish  bagpipes,  now  shrill  and  harsh,  as  threatening  ven- 
geance on  the  foe,  then  in  softer  tones,  seeming  to  promise  succor 
to  their  friends  in  need.  Never,  surely,  was  there  such  a  scene  as 
that  which  followed.  Not  a  heart  in  the  residency  of  Lucknow  but 
bowed  itself  before  God.  All,  by  one  simultaneous  impulse,  fell 
upon  their  knees,  and  nothing  was  heard  but  bursting  sobs  and  the 


6oO  HAND-BOOK    OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE. 

murmured  voice  of  prayer.  Then  all  arose,  and  there  rang  out  from 
a  thousand  lips  a  great  shout  of  joy  which  resounded  far  and  wide, 
and  lent  new  vigor  to  that  blessed  pibroch.  To  our  cheer  of  "  God 
save  the  Queen  "  they  replied  by  the  well-known  strain  that 
moves  every  Scot  to  tears,  "  Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot."' 
After  that  nothing  else  made  any  impression  on  me.  I  scarcely  re 
member  what  followed.  Jessie  was  presented  to  the  general  on  his 
entrance  into  the  fort,  and  at  the  officers'  banquet  her  health  was 
drank  by  all  present,  while  the  pipers  marched  round  the  table 
playing  once  more  the  familiar  air  of  "  Auld  Lang  Syne." 


A   CHRISTMAS   HYMN. 

[Printed  as  anonymous  in  Longfellow's  "  Waif,"  but  now  understood  to  have  been  written 
by  Alfred  Dommett.] 

It  was  the  calm  and  silent  night ! 

Seven  hundred  years  and  fifty-three 
Had  Rome  been  growing  up  to  might, 

And  now  was  queen  of  land  and  sea. 
No  sound  was  heard  of  clashing  wars,  — 

Peace  brooded  o'er  the  hushed  domain  : 
Apollo,  Pallas,  Jove,  and  Mars 

Held  undisturbed  their  ancient  reign, 

In  the  solemn  midnight 

Centuries  ago. 

'Twas  in  the  calm  and  silent  night, 

The  senator  of  haughty  Rome 
Impatient  urged  his  chariot's  flight, 

From  lordly  revel  rolling  home  : 
Triumphal  arches  gleaming  swell 

His  breast  with  thoughts  of  boundless  sway ; 
What  recked  the  Roman  what  befell 

A  paltry  province  far  away, 
In  the  solemn  midnight, 
Centuries  ago  ? 

Within  that  province  far  away. 

Went  plodding  home  a  weary  boor ; 


HAND-BOOK   OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE.  6oJ 

A  Streak  of  light  before  him  lay, 

Fallen  through  a  half-shut  stable  door 
Across  his  path.     He  passed,  —  for  nought 

Told  what  was  going  on  within  ; 
How  keen  the  stars  !  his  only  thought,  — 
The  air,  how  calm,  and  cold,  and  thin, 
In  the  solemn  midnight, 
Centuries  ago  ! 

O,  strange  indifference  !  low  and  high 

Drowsed  over  common  joys  and  cares  ; 
The  earth  was  still,  —  but  knew  not  why 

The  world  was  listening,  —  unawares. 
How  calm  a  moment  may  precede 

One  that  shall  thrill  the  world  forever  ! 
To  that  still  moment,  none  would  heed, 

Man's  doom  was  linked  no  more  to  sever, 
In  the  solemn  midnight, 
Centuries  ago  ! 

It  is  the  calm  and  solemii  night ! 

A  thousand  bells  ring  out,  and  throw 
Their  joyous  peals  abroad,  and  smite 

The  darkness,  —  charmed  and  holy  now  ! 
The  night  that  erst  no  shame  had  worn. 

To  it  a  happy  name  is  given  ;. 
For  in  that  stable  lay,  new  born, 

The  peaceful  Prince  of  earth  and  heaven, 
In  the  solemn  midnight. 
Centuries  ago. 


APPENDIX. 


Page  I.  That  the  final  e  was  used  anciently  as  a  separate  syllable  is  shown  by  Chaucer's 
making  Rome,  rhyme  with  to  me. 

Page  3      A  mor  vmcit  omnia.     Love  conquers  all  things. 

Page  29.  Byrd  was  a  composer,  and  was  organist  to  Queen  Elizabeth.  There  is  no 
evidence  that  he  wrote  the  poem. 

Page  104.     Tuly,  now  generally  called  Cicero. 

Page  144.     Idyllimns.     Pastoral  poems. 

Page  156      Le  vaingueur,  &c.     The  conqueror  of  the  conqueror  of  the  earth. 

Page  186.  Bceotum  in  crasso  jurares  acre  natos  I  You  would  swear  that  they  were  bom 
in  the  heavy  air  of  the  Boeotians. 

Page  213.     Quantum  meruit.     How  much  he  has  deserved. 

Pa-e  215  iEneid,  B.  III.  201,  202.  Palinurus  himself  declared  that  he  could  not  dis- 
tingmsh  night  from  day  in  the  heavens,  and  that  he  did  not  remember  the  course  in  the 
midst  of  the  sea. 

Page  219.     Nitor  in  aduersum.     I  make  my  way  against  opposition. 

Page  226.  ^neid,  B.  IX.  448,  449-  While  the  house  of  ^neas  shall  occupy  the  im- 
movable rock  of  the  Capitol,  and  the  Roman  citizen  shall  bear  sway. 

Page  229.     Bone  de  Paris.     Paris  mud.  —  Sans  culottes.     Without  breeches. 

Page  277.     Nemo,  &c.     No  one  provokes  me  with  impunity. 

Page  328.  Mtcndus,  &c.  Stock  of  things  eatable.  -Princess,  &c.  Chief  of  viands.  - 
A  mor,  &c.     Love  of  uncleanness. 

Page  381.  Muoiono  le  citta,  &c.  Cities  die,  kingdoms  die,  and  man  appears  to  dis- 
dain his  being  mortal. 

Page  382.     Odi,  &c.     I  hate  the  common  crowd  and  drive  them  off. 

Page.  384.  Evasit,  &c.  He  has  escaped,  he  has  burst  iorth.— From  Cicero's  second 
oration  agaijist  Catiline. 

Page  38/.    Fortuna,  &c.     Fortune  favors  the  brave. 

Page  441.  Mens.  &c.  A  mind  composed  in  difficulties.  The  true  force  of  the  raotlo  is 
untranslatable  except  by  amplifying. 

Pagesc6.  Non  Angli,  &c.  The  exclamation  of  Pope  Gregory  at  the  sight  of  some 
beautiful  British  youth  sold  in  Rome  as  slaves.      "  Not  Angles,  but  angels." 

Page  510.  "Thrown  upon  this  ball 

Ugly,  wretched,  and  suffering  ; 

Stifled  in  the  crowd 

For  want  of  being  great  enough ; 

"  A  touching  complaint 
Came  from  my  mouth  ; 
The  good  God  said  to  me,  Sing, 
Sing,  poor  little  one  ! 

"To  sing,  unless  I  deceive  myself. 

Is  my  task  here  below. 
All  those  whom  thus  I  amuse. 
Will  they  not  love  me  ?  " 
PageS7a.     Optimam  fceminam,  &c.     Petrarch   declares    "that  no  woman  is  wholly 
excellent,  although  one  may  be  worse  than  another." 

603 


INDEX. 


PAGE 

Abou  Ben  Adhem 385 

Addison,  Joseph 97 

Addison,  Thackeray's  tribute  to.     ...  507 

Alexander's  Feast 88 

Acting,  Partridge's  opinion  of.     ....  152 

Alps,  a  Storm  in  the,  by  Lord  Byron.    .  399 

Althea,  to,  from  Prison 83 

American  Independence,  by  Walpole.    .  186 

Ancient  Mariner,  Rime  of  the 310 

Apennines,  Ascent  of. 545 

Animals,  cruelty  to 375 

Arab  Poet,  an 481 

Areopagitica 66 

Arnold  of  Winkelried 302 

Arthur,  the  Passing  of. 484 

Artisan  and  Artist,  the  Identification  of 

the 471 

As  it  fell  upon  a  day 31 

AscHAM,  Roger 4 

Astronomer,  the  Insane 159 

Athenian  Culture,   the  permanent   In- 

■  fluence  of  . 444 

Auld  Robin  Gray. 253 

Autumn,  to,  by  Keats 412 

Bacon,  Francis 12 

Bacon  and  Shakespeare  compared.  .  .   .   358 

Ballads,  Ancient 69 

Baltic,  Battle  of  the 339 

Barnard,  Lady  Anne 249 

Barnfield,  Richard 31 

Barrow,  Isaac 86 

Bathing  in  a  Highland  Stream 560 

Beattie,  James 344 

Beth  Gelert,  or  the  Grave  of  the  Grey- 
hound  268 

Blakesmoor,  Extracts  from 335 

BOLINGBROKE,    LoRD II9 

Books,  My,  by  Leigh  Hunt 379 

Boston  Tea  Party,  a  distant  View  of,  .  .   425 
Boswell,  Value  of  his  Life  of  Johnson.  .   503 


PAGR 

Bothie  of  Tober-Na-Vuolich,  the.  .  .  .  56^ 
Break,  break,  break,  on  thy  cold  gray 

stones,  O  sea 493 

Brides  of  Enderby,  ringing  of  the.  .   .   .  584 

Bronte,  Charlotte 547 

Brougham,  Lord 350 

Brougham  a>  Lord  Chancellor 296 

Browne,  Sir  Thomas 45 

Browning,  Elizabeth  Barrett.    .  .  515 

Browning,  Robert 513 

Bruce's  Address 264 

Buchanan,  Robert. 596 

Bugle  Song 493 

Bulwer  Lytton,  Sir  Edward.   .  .  .  473 

"          Reply  to,  by  Tennyson 495 

"           Attack  on  Tennyson  by.    .   .    .  474 

Burke,  Edmund. 211 

"         Brougham's  Character  of.  .   .   .  350 

Burns,  Robert 254 

"          Essay  on,  by  Carlyle 413 

"         Landor's  Idea  of. 337 

Butler,  Samuel 81 

Byron,  Lord •  •  395 

Campbell,  Thomas 338 

Carlyle,  Thomas 415 

Castle  of  Indolence,  from  the 148 

Cat  drowned  in  a  Tub  of  Goldfishes.  .   .  180 

Chalmers,  Thomas,  D.  D 375 

Chamouni,  Hymn  before  Sunrise  in  the 

Vale  of. 308 

Character  of  a  happy  Life,  the 30 

Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade,  the.  .  .  .  474 
Charles  II.,  Society  and  Manners  in  the 

Time  of 434 

Charles  V.,  from  the  History  of  ...  .  195 
Charlotte,  the  Princess,  from  a  Sermon 

on  the  Death  of 264 

Chaucer,  Geoffrey i 

Chesterfield,  Letter  to  Lord 156 

Chevy-Chace 69 

605 


6o6 


INDEX. 


Childhoood,  by  De  Quincey 

Christ,  Mention  of,  by  Tacitus 

Christianity,  Nature  of. 

"  What  it  has  done 

Christmas  Carol,  a 

Christmas  Hymn,  a 

Christopher  North,  from  the  Recrea- 
tions of. 

Church  Music 

Cicero,  his  sorrow  for  the  death  of  his 
daughter 

Clarendon.     S^e  Edward  Hyde.  .  •   . 

Clergy  in  time  of  Cliarles  II 

Clough,  Arthur  Hugh 

Coffee  Houses  in  time  of  Charles  II.  .   . 

Coleridge,  Samuel  Taylor 

Collins,  William 

Commonplace  Critics.  . 

Comus,  selections  from 

Conjugal  Love 

Cotter's  Saturday  Night,  the 

Cowley,  Abraham 

CowPER,  William 

"  allusion  to,  by  Landor.    .   .   . 

Crimea,  Invasion  of  the 

Cromarty,  the  Dropping  Cave  of,    .   .   . 

Cromwell,  character  of. 

Cruelty  to  Animals 

Cunning,  of 

Daffodils,  to.  .   . 

Darnley,  Murder  of. 

Day  Dreams  of  a  Schoolmaster 

Dsath-bed,  the 

Defoe,  Daniei 

De  Quincey,  Thomas 

DeVere,  Aubrey 

Desert,  the 

Deserted  Village,  the 

Dickens,  Charles 

Disraeli,  Benjaminj 

Distant  Correspondents 

Dryden,  John 

Eagle,  the,  by  Tennyson 

Earthly  Paradise,  the 

Education,  the  Spectator  upon 

Edwin  and  Angelina 

Egypt,  the  people  of,  by  H.  Martineau. 
Elegy  written  in  a  Country  Churchyard. 

"Eliot,  George." 

End  of  the  Play 

Epistle  to  a  Loving  Friend 

Essay  on  Man 

European  Morals,  History  of 

Evening,  Ode  to 


38 
SSI 
S73 
431 

92 
388 
S4S 
462 
198 
S16  I 
480' 
331 

87 

493 
589 
103 
209 
458 
176 
570 

512 

261 
121 
580 
193 


Faerie  Queene,  the. 6 

Faithless  Nelly  Gray 431 

Fame,  Literary 318 

Farmer's  Wife  and  the  pascon,  the.  .   .  356 

Fielding,  Henry 152 

Fletcher,  John 37 

Flowers,  Hymn  to  the 352 

For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that 263 

Fox,  Charles  J.,  character  of. 352 

Fox,  the,  by  Gay 140 

Francis  I.  and  Henry  VII I.,  Meeting  of.  197 
Frederick    the   Great,    Portrait  o^    by 

Carlyle. 423 

Frederick  the  Great,  from  the  History  of.  427 

Front-de-Bceuf 's  Castle,  storming  of. .  .  289 

Froude,  J.\mes  Anthony 551 

Fuller,  Thomas 78 

Garden,  Thoughts  in  a. 84 

Gardens,  of 15 

Gay,  John 140 

Georges,  the  Four 497 

Ghent,    how  they   brought    the   Good 

News  from 513 

Gibbon,  Edward 246 

Go,  lovely  Rose 42 

Goldsmith,  Oliver 198 

'*              Thackeray's  account  of. .  .  510 

Graces  and  Anxieties  of  Pig-Driving,  the.  382 

Grandeur  of  the  Universe 378 

Grasshopper,  the 49 

Grasshopper  and  the  Cricket,  to  the,  by 

Leigh  Hunt 384 

Gray,  Thomas 176 

Greece,  by  Lord  Byron 396 

Grecian  Urn,  Ode  on  a 413 

Hall,  Robert 264 

Hastings,  Warren,  Impeachment  of.  .   .   489 

Hastings,  the  Battle  of 162 

Hazlitt,  William 346 

Heart  of  Mid-Lothian,  Scene  from.  .  .  277 
Heat  as  a  Mode  of  Motion,  from.  ,  .  .  568 
Henry  VIII.  and  Francis  I.,  Meeting  of.  197 
Henry  Esmond,  from  the  History  of  .  .  496 

Her  Triumph 33 

Herbert,  George 40 

Hermit,  the 244 

Herrick,  Robert 38 

Heywood,  Thomas 37 

History,  Modern  Ideas  of 412 

Home  they  brought  her  warrior  dead.    .  493 

Hood,  Thomas 429 

Hooker,  Richard 10 

Horatius 447 

How  happy  is  he  bom  and  taught  ...     30 


INDEX. 


607 


How  they  brought  the  Good  News  from 

Ghent  to  Aix 5^3 

Hudibras ^^ 

Hughes,  Thomas! S7S 

Human  Nature,  the  Dignity  of.  ....   115 

Hume,  David 162 

Hunt,  Leigh •  •   •  379 

Hyde,  Edward 5° 

Hymn,  by  Thomson 147 

I  Remember 43° 

Ignorance  of  the  Learned 346 

II  Penseroso 64. 

Imaginary  Conversations,  by  Landor.    .  337 

Immortality. 475 

"            Ode  on  the  Intimations  of.  268 

"           of  Love 320 

Inchcape  Rock 320 

Ingelow,  Jean 5^4 

In  Memoriam 493 

Inverbuni,  from  a  Sketch  of. 59^ 

It  was  the  calm  and  silent  night 601 

Ivanhoe,  Scene  from 289 

Ivry,  the  Battle  of 454 

Jeanie  Deans,  to  the  Queen,  Visit  of  277 

318 

241 

156 


Lucknow,  Relief  of 

Lycidas 

LvTTON,  Sir  Edward  Bulwer. 


Jeffrey,  Francis 

John  Gilpin 

Johnson,  Samuel 

Johnson,  Biographers  of 

his  support  ol  the  monarchy.  . 

Jonson,  Ben 

"        His  Eulogy  upon  Shakespeare. 
Judicature,  of 


Keats,  John 41° 

"       Landor's  Idea  of 337 

Kemble,  J.  P.,  Valedictory  Stanzas  to.  .   345 

King  and  Miller  of  Mansfield 72 

Kinglake,  Alfxander  William.  .  .   459 
Kingsley,  Charles SSS 

L' Allegro. 63 

Lamb,  Charles 324 

Landor,  Walter  Sav.age 337 

Lecky,  William  E.  H 580 

Le  Fcvre,  Story  of 168 

Letter  to  a  Noble  Lord,  a 211 

Lie,  the S 

Lincolnshire,  High  Tide  on  the  Coast  of  584 
Literary  Fame,  the  uncertain  Tenure  of  318 

LochieTs  Warning 342 

Lochinvar,  Young 297 

Love's  Good  Morrow 37 

Love.  Immortality  of 322 

Lovelace,  Richard 83 


Macaulay,  Lord 

Man  born  to  be  King,  the 

Mann,  Sir  Horace,  Walpole's  Letters  to. 

Martineau,  Harriet 

Martineau,  James • 

Marvell,  Andrew 

Mary  in  Heaven,  to 

Mary,  Queen  of  Scots,  her  complicity  in 

the  murder  of  her  husband 

Melancholy 

Melrose  Abbey 

Miller,  Hugh 

Miller's  Daughter,  the 

Millerof  Mansfield  and  King 

Milton,  John 

Milton,  Epigram  on 

Milton's  Eve,  Character  of 

Minstrel,  the 

Mirza,  the  Vision  of 

Modern  Painters,  by  Ruskin 

Montagu,  Lady  M.  W 

'•  Letter  to  Mr.  Pope 

"  a  Description  of  by  Walpole. 

Montgomery,  James 

Moore,  Thomas 

Morning  Meditations 

Morris,  William 

Mountain  Daisy,  to  a 

Mouse,  to  a 

MuLOCK,  Dinah  Maria 

Music,  Fondness  of  Gsorge  III.  for.  .   . 

Music,  on -.   .   . 

My  mind  to  me  a  kingdom  is 


Nature,  the  Love  of       .... 
New  Timon  and  the  Poets,  the. 

Nightingale,  Ode  to  a 

Nile,  the,  and  the  Desert.  .  .   . 


O,  breathe  not  his  name 

Ocean,  the,  by  Lord  Byron 

Old  Age  and  Death 

O  Mary,  go  and  call  the  cattle  home. 
Oriental  Poetry,  Specimen  of  .   .   . 


Palimpsest,  the 

Paradise  and  the  Peri 

Parental  Sotow 

Partington,  Mrs.,  Sydney  Smith's  anec- 
dote of 

Partridge  at  the  playhouse 

Passions,  the 


598 

58 

473 

433 

589 
185 
456 
475 
84 
263 

551 

37 

298 

467 

474 

72 

52 

91 

548 

245 

106 

564 
143 
143 
185 
301 
358 
432 
589 
262 
262 
576 
505 
374 
29 

27  s 
495 
410 
456 

374 
401 
43 
559 
146 

391 
359 
339 

304 

i5» 
190 


6o8 


INDEX. 


Peele  Castle  in  a  Storm,  a  Picture  of.  .  274 
Peter  Plymley's  letters  on  the  Catholic 

Question 305 

Philip  my  King 577 

Pibroch  of  Donald  Dhu.    .......  300 

Pig-driving,  the  Graces  and  Anxieties  of.  378 

Pitt,  William,  Character  of. 353 

Plague  in  London,  from  Journal  of.  .   .  94 

Poesy,  the  Progress  of. 181 

Poetry,  a  Rhapsody  on 96 

"        from  Rasselas,  a  Discourse  upon.  157 

"        Oriental,  Specimen  of 146 

Pope,  Alexander 120 

"      Lady  M.  W.  Montagu's  Letter  to.  143 

Portrait,  a  (Wordsworth) 275 

Prayer,  on 43 

Press,  the  Freedom  of  the 66 

Primroses  filled  with  Morning  Dew,  to.  39 

Princess,  Songs  from  the 493 

Puritan  Character,  the 445 

Qu&  Cursum  Ventus 562 

Queen  Mab 403 

Raleigh,  Sir  Walter 5 

Rape  of  the  Lock 127 

Rasselas,  Extracts  from 157 

Rebecca,  Song  of    .' 301 

Recluse,  the 301 

Retaliation 206 

Rime  of  the  Ancient  Mariner,  the.  .  .   .  310 

Ring  out,  wild  bells 494 

Roast  Pig,  a  Dissertation  on 325 

Robertson,  William 195 

Robinson  Crusoe,  from 92 

Romola,  Extract  from 570 

RusKiN,  John 562 

Scholar,  the 321 

School  Days  at  Rugby 575 

Schoolmaster,  the  Good 78 

Scott,  Sir  Walter 277 

Sea-Mew,  the 515 

Sex  as  affecting  Character 580 

Shakespeare,  William 25 

"               Eulogy  upon,  by  Jonson.  34 

"              'compared  with  Bacon.  .  338 

She  was  a  phantom  of  delight 275 

Shelley,  Percy  Bysshe 403 

Shepherd's  Dog,  the 141 

Shiriey.  Extract  from 547 

Skylark,  to  a.    < 406 

Sleep,  to 38 

Smith,  Horace 354 

Smith,  Sydney 303 

Soldier's  Dream,  the 344 


Song  of  the  Shirt 429 

South  ey,  Robert 320 

Spectator,  the,  Thackeray's  reference  to.  500 

Spencer,  William  Robert 268 

Spenser,  Edmund 6 

Starling,  the 174 

Steele,  Richard 116 

"         Thackeray's  account  of.    ...  508 

Sterne,  Laurence 168 

Story-tellers,  on 120 

Strawberry  Hill,  Walpole's  Residence  at.  187 

Stream's  Singing,  a 578 

Studies,  of 20 

Sunday 40 

Sun,  the  Influence  of. 568 

Swift,  Jonathan.    .  .  » 95 

Tancred,  Scene  from 480 

Task,  the 233 

Tatler,  the 117 

Taxation,  on 307 

Taylor,  Jeremy 43 

Tennyson,  Alfred 483 

"  BulwerLytton's  attack  upon.  474 

Thackeray,  William  Makepeace.  .  495 
The  turf  shall  be  my  fragrant  shrine.  .  .  373 
Thompson,  D'Arcy  Wentworth.  .  .  573 

Thomson,  James 147 

Three  fishers  went  sailing 558 

Timon,  the  New 473 

Tobacco  Parliament,  the 427 

Tristram  Shandy,  Extract  from 168 

Tyndall,  John 567 

Venice,  by  Lord  Byron 399 

Virtue 41 

Vision  of  Mirza,  the 106 

Voltaire,  from  the  Essay  on,  by  Carlyle.  420 

Waller,  Edmund 42 

Walpole,  Horace 185 

Waterloo,   the   Night  before,  by   Lord 

Byron 397 

We  are  seven 276 

Westminster  Bridge,  Sonnet  composed 

on 275 

We  watched  her  breathing  through  the 

night 431 

Wilson,  John 385 

Wiseman,  Cardinal 47^ 

Wit,  by  Barrow. 86 

Wordsworth,  William 269 

Wordsworth,  Sonnets  to  (De  Vere).  .  •  54^ 
Wotton,  Sir  Henry 30 

Zenobia,  Gibbon's  account  of. 246 


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